


Sloth | Lazy Days

by Drarrelie



Series: Seven Shades of Sin [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anniversary, Banter, Community: Seven Shades of Drarry, Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Established Relationship, Fanart Welcome, Feel-good, Flashbacks, Flirting, Fluff, Flustered Harry Potter, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Harry Potter, M/M, No Angst, POV Harry Potter, Podfic Welcome, Post Mpreg, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Sassy Draco Malfoy, Sassy Harry Potter, Scars, Seven Deadly Sins, Smitten Harry Potter, Smut, St Mungo's Hospital, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, stretch marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drarrelie/pseuds/Drarrelie
Summary: It’s been ten years since that strange man with his strange condition showed up in Healer Potter’s office, setting off a chain reaction none of them could’ve ever predicted.A getting-together story involving puzzling symptoms, inefficient coworkers and a life-altering turn of events that caught them both blind-sided.Sloth— the absence of interest or habitual disinclination to exertion.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Seven Shades of Sin [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677472
Comments: 62
Kudos: 220
Collections: Seven Shades of Drarry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Sin anthology](/series/1677472), the first in a series of planned collaborative projects within the [Seven Shades of Drarry](/collections/Seven_Shades_of_Drarry) collective.
> 
> Thank you, my brilliant Shady Ladies, for all that you are and all that you do. This fic wouldn’t have been the same without you — or, rather, it never would’ve even existed if it weren’t for you.
> 
> English is not my native language so please be kind if you find any errors I've missed. That said, I’ll appreciate any feedback you’re willing to give me — kudos, comments and recommendations are my primary life sources.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to — and are reverently borrowed from — JKR and associated publishers.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2emrdGIthVVBwflHmUO4Yo?si=_dQ6V1ITQH-abE_5ChF3lw); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.

* * *

_Now_

* * *

A soft ray of sunlight peeking through the gap in the curtains is what brings Harry awake this morning. Its warm tendrils brush gently over his skin, ghost over his eyelids and draw a content smile from his lips.

Harry can’t even remember the last time he woke up like this; allowed a late morning lie-in without a care in the world. Months, surely, if not years. If it’s not the buzz of an alarm spell rousing him for another workday, it’s one of their kids craving attention or a neighbour bustling around at sunrise o’clock.

Today is different, though, Harry reminds himself — special. Just as it should be.

When Draco asked him what he wanted to do for their anniversary, this was what Harry wished for. Not a romantic weekend away at some luxury resort or a hip city on the continent; not tickets to a Quidditch game or a West End show; not a fancy dinner at any of those snazzy restaurants Draco always says he wants to take him to; not even a relaxed garden-party with their friends and family. Just this; them, alone. One day for just the two of them, as a break from the hectic chaos that is their ordinary family life.

They’ll probably still end up going to one of those restaurants tonight — knowing Draco, he’s probably booked the table already several weeks ago — but that’s perfectly okay. It’s called compromising. It’s what you do in a marriage if you want it to work and last longer than a package of toilet rolls.

There’s a blackbird singing in the birches outside, its cheerful song finding its way through the slightly ajar window. Without opening his eyes, Harry can feel the presence of his husband’s body next to him, Draco’s warmth reaching out to mingle with his own in the space between them.

Despite their many years together, Harry can attest mornings like these have been few and far between. He can’t even remember the last time they woke up side by side, without one of them already up and about, preparing breakfast and entertaining the kids.

And honestly, waking up like this wasn’t all that usual before the children either. Back in those days, they still slept entangled in one another’s limbs, half on top of each other or spooning, and their morning routine almost always commenced with a rock-hard morning wood pressing against a hip or an arse cheek — or devoured by a hot hungry mouth.

They used to be insatiable then; almost incapable of keeping their hands off each other whenever they happened to be in the same room — even in the company of others, much to their friends’ dismay. Harry can’t help the grin from spreading across his face at the recollection, finally giving in to the urge to open his eyes and look at the man he loves.

Draco is lying on his side, his face close enough for Harry to see the familiar features clearly even without his glasses, and Harry’s heart melts at the sight of ruffled blond hair, pillow-creases on a pale cheek, and rosy lips curved into a fond smile.

“Hi,” Draco murmurs softly, his voice husky from sleep.

Harry shifts his gaze to meet his husband’s warm grey eyes, currently sparkling with amusement.

“Mornin’,” Harry says, clearing his throat to wake up his own vocal cords. “Watching me sleep, eh?”

“Maybe,” Draco hums and lifts a hand to trace the length of Harry’s arm before carding his slender fingers through Harry’s unruly locks. “What were you thinking about just now? You were smiling like a loon.”

“You,” Harry says, reaching over to place a light kiss on the tip of Draco’s nose. “Us.”

“Yeah?”

The hand that’s been entangled in Harry’s hair travels further back to curl around the nape of his neck, keeping Harry close enough for Draco to press his soft lips to Harry’s own. The kiss they share is slow and tender, affectionate and unhurried — so unlike those hungry desperate kisses they used to crave in the beginning.

Back then, every kiss was spiked with desire, ablaze with pent-up emotions from nearly two decades of charged confrontations and a magnetic pull none of them had been able to identify at the time. Back then, every touch was laced with the awe of something too good to be true, mixed with the fear of it suddenly coming to an end — of waking up one day, only to find it all being nothing but a dream.

Harry groans as Draco draws back, fluttering his eyes open as Draco cups his jaw and strokes the pad of his silky-smooth thumb over Harry’s flushed cheek.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” he says.

“No plan,” Harry says, smiling as he watches the crease form between Draco’s brows as he frowns. Draco always needs to have a plan, or he’ll get restless and itchy. “Don’t worry, love, I reckon we just do whatever the hell we want.”

“And what do you want?”

“How about just staying in bed?”

Draco is awfully adorable when he’s going for his incredulous look, with his bright eyes comically wide and those neat pale eyebrows raised halfway towards his hairline.

“You want us to lie here all day? You know sloth is a deadly sin, right?”

“So, let’s sin,” Harry grins, waggling his eyebrows as he wraps his arm around Draco’s waist and pulls him closer. “Let’s be slothy for a day, just you and me.”

“Slothy?” Draco snorts, “I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.”

“So? It’s not like we’re playing Scrabble or anything.” Harry chuckles, feeling rather pleased with himself as the corner of Draco’s mouth twitches from repressed amusement. “Slothy, slothful, slothsome. I don’t care what it’s called — I want it. Besides—” Harry leans in, pressing another kiss on Draco’s petulant lips, feeling them soften beneath his own before drawing back and giving Draco a mischievous wink. “Considering what finally brought us together, wouldn’t sloth be just the perfect theme for our anniversary?”

Draco sighs and rolls his eyes, and Harry can only snicker at his husband’s antics. He may be frustrating at times, if not downright annoying, and he’s such a fucking drama queen. But, he’s Harry’s annoying drama queen, and no matter how much they bicker and banter, Harry wouldn’t want him any other way.

* * *

_Then_

* * *

“Well, Mrs Jugson,” Harry said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I honestly don’t know what to tell you.”

“You don’t—?” Piercing blue eyes stared back at him from under furrowed brows. “And you call yourself a Healer?”

“Yes,” Harry said calmly, silently counting down from ten, “as a matter of fact, I do.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been questioned in his profession, and while it used to bother him in the beginning, it didn’t sting all that much anymore. Harry had been at St Mungo’s for nearly a decade now; he knew he was good at what he did.

Also, he knew that look. It was not mistrust, but concern. Worry. Anxiety.

“So, why can’t you tell me what’s wrong with my husband?”

“Because we don’t know yet,” Harry answered honestly. “We’re still waiting for the tests to come back from the lab.”

He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile before glancing over at Mr Jugson by her side. Just looking at him, you wouldn’t suspect there was anything wrong with the man. He didn’t seem to have any injuries, neither superficial nor internal, and the standard Diagnostic Spells hadn’t given Harry much to work with either.

Except for the heart rate. The _extremely low_ heart rate.

Any other patient with a heart rate that slow would’ve passed out a long time ago, and yet, curiously enough, this middle-aged man just sat there calmly in the visiting chair across from him, scratching his forearm as he looked at Harry expectantly.

“If you don’t mind, Mr Jugson, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation. Just until we know what caused your current condition.”

Mr Jugson blinked — slowly — before — slowly — nodding his consent.

And this was the symptom that currently had half of St Mungo’s frowning in confusion. It was as if Mr Jugson were living in slow motion; as if he existed in a separate timeline of sorts — a timeline which ran at least ten times slower than the usual one. And Harry didn’t know if he’d rather laugh at it all, or cry out in frustration — the only thing he knew was, he really shouldn’t do either of the two.

Instead, he gave his patient a nod of approval before reaching for his quill and jotting down a short note for his colleagues to prepare a bed for the night. As it flew off towards the Mediwizards’ station, Harry turned back to the worried woman in front of him.

“I’ll let you know as soon as we have any news to share. We have yet to determine the reason for your husband’s current state and—”

“You mean to tell me you don’t even know what this is? Surely, there must be previous cases you could—”

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid there isn’t.”

Harry knew he was breaking one of the cardinal rules of his Healer code by telling her this — admitting lack of knowledge or uncertainty only tends to cause distress, for patients as well as next-of-kins — but the urge to tell this woman the truth was currently stronger than Harry’s loyalty to his vocation.

“We have several people already searching for the root to your husband’s condition as we speak, and the only thing I can say with certainty at this point is, there shouldn’t be any cause for alarm; your husband’s not ill or injured, nor is he suffering from his symptoms — he’s just…”

“…slow.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, pleased to witness the tension draining from Mrs Jugson’s shoulders. “In fact, if you don’t mind, there’s a way in which you could help the process along.”

“How?” Mrs Jugson asked, her eyes widening as she leaned forward.

“To be able to discern how your husband became affected, it’d be helpful if you could provide information regarding your husband’s last couple of days; his whereabouts, his doings, any unusual behaviour, his food intake, any people he’s been in contact with, et cetera.”

“But, of course,” she said determined, “anything you need, Healer Potter.”

“Thank you, Mrs Jugson, that’d be most appreciated. I’ll have a Mediwizard come and go through it all with you in a few moments.” Harry assembled Mr Jugson’s file and rose from his chair. “If there’s anything you need in the meantime, just tap your wand against my desk three times and someone will be with you shortly.”

Harry managed to keep his professional face intact until he was out the door, hiding the emotional turmoil raging within. He took a deep breath, then another, before resolutely heading towards his Senior Healer’s office.

* * *

Over his years in St Mungos, Harry had been approached by the board several times, their hands laden with offerings of higher management positions neatly wrapped up in glossy incentives and fancy ribbons of praise. He declined their offers every time, of course; partly because his Gringotts vault was loaded enough for him to not need any increases of salary, like, ever — or any salary at all, to be honest — and partly because he actually liked the practical aspects of his work. Mostly, though, it was because he didn’t want anything to do with the politics and the bureaucracy, not to mention all those endless board meetings that’d inevitably come with a position like that.

No, the Management Team of St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was not exactly lauded for their efficiency or decisiveness; rather the opposite, if truth be told. And today was apparently no exception to the rule, because evidently the hospital had no routines in place for handling yet-to-be-diagnosed patients.

So, since no one yet knew what had triggered Mr Jugson’s current state, Harry’s decision to keep him overnight for observation brought about a whole new level of confusion for his superiors. Seeing as the hospital usually categorised its patients by cause of condition, it took the executives a good while to finally come to a decision on which ward the poor man should best be admitted to.

Depending on the cause of this new mysterious condition — which Harry, unofficially, had started to refer to as Slowmongitis — Mr Jugson could’ve actually belonged to any one of the hospital’s five wards: Potions and Plants, if provoked by something ingested; Artifact Accidents, if by contact with a cursed object; Magical Bugs, if it was due to an infection or virus of some sort; or, if his condition turned out to be a reaction to any form of spell-damage, even with Harry and his colleagues up here in the Janus Thickey Ward on fourth. The only ward left out of the equation, for the time being, was the “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites, seeing as they only treated creature-induced injuries and Mr Jugson, at least from the looks of it, seemed to be physically unharmed.

True to their reputation, the Ward Managers ended up spending no less than six hours in the boardroom discussing this issue, throwing Mr Jugson’s case back and forth between them like a hot potato about to explode. None of them felt obliged to take responsibility for the care of a yet-to-be-diagnosed patient — not to mention the trials and tribulations associated with the researching, identifying, and recording of a previously unknown disease.

Ultimately, the fate of Mr Jugson was dropped right back into Harry’s lap as his boss, Senior Healer Codswallop, drew the short straw between them. And that, only because they all agreed — _lo and behold!_ — Mr Jugson should be kept separate, due to risk of contagion, and their ward was the only one with a spare room to offer.

If it could even count as a room.

Harry muttered every non-magical curse he could come up with as he drew his wand and started transfiguring the former supply cupboard into something a little more fitting to accommodate the new patient and his enigmatic condition. Harry was a Healer, damn it, and a bloody good one, too — not a member of the Maintenance staff. He shouldn’t have had to spend his time prepping rooms; he should’ve been taking care of his patients. But what else was there to do when the Maintenance Department insisted every request for their services be submitted in writing by way of a ten-page form, in triplicate? And even if you, by some miraculous serendipity, managed to fill out their form to their liking, there was still an expected two-week turnaround regardless of the level of urgency. So, if you ever wanted anything done in this place, you’d just have to do it yourself.

Half an hour later, after several extension charms, a couple of colouring charms, and countless cleaning charms, the room looked nearly habitable. Harry’s entire body ached when he cast the final enchantment at the far wall, creating the illusion of a large window providing the room with a warm afternoon glow.

Harry slumped down on the edge of a rickety chair and let out an audible sigh as he tilted his head from side to side, working out the kinks in his tense neck. His shift had ended several hours ago and yet, here he was again, missing out on another dinner with his friends, thanks to his superiors’ complete lack of efficiency and respect for their patients and personnel. Hell, how hard could it possibly be? One patient, five wards. Even a group of assorted Pygmy Puffs would’ve been able to come to a decision in under thirty minutes. If push came to shove, you could even draw lots, or roll a die, or why not execute the good old eeny meeny miny moe? Instead, they’d kept Harry and his patient waiting for hours on end — hours Harry would never get back.

_As if you would’ve done anything productive with those hours even if you did get them back_ , said a snide nagging voice in his head — that voice, which sounded so much like Aunt Petunia. (And also, to be honest, a little bit like Hermione.)

Harry snorted, watching the dust particles dance in his conjured ray of sunlight. It wasn’t like he needed someone telling him he didn’t have a life outside of the hospital. He knew. He knew he spent too much time wrapped up in his work. He knew he never went out anymore. He knew he spent too much of his spare time alone in his flat. He knew he’d never find his Someone Special this way.

He knew; because Ron and Hermione always made sure to remind him of it every chance they got.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t want to go out; to meet up with old friends or to make new ones. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to find someone to share his life with. Because he did. He really, really did. Especially every time he witnessed the love between his two best friends. He wanted that. He wanted what they had. He wanted it so desperately. It was just—

Too much. Too hard. Too bothersome.

Putting yourself out there, exposing yourself to people who thought they knew you, but didn’t. People who thought they were going out on a date with a hero, a somebody — only to end up across the table from a disappointingly ordinary anybody. Harry had long since lost count of how many blind dates his friends had set him up with through the years; had long since lost the will to agree to another one ever again.

And it was easy for Ron and Hermione to tell him not to give up, to say it would be worth it. They, who had fallen in love with their best friend before they had even been out of school. Harry couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever know him that way, who’d ever know him well enough to see him for him — _Harry_. Not Harry Potter; the Chosen One; the fucking Saviour; the bloody Boy Who Lived.

Harry shuddered at the loathed epithets as they echoed through his mind. He’d never asked for any of it, had never wanted to be anyone’s hero. And yet, that’s what he’d become.

And if you thought the hero was bound to get his Happily Ever After at the end of the line, you’d better think again. Apparently, Lonely Ever After was more like it.

* * *

Two weeks later, there was still no answer in sight regarding Mr Jugson’s peculiar condition. In fact, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if everyone but himself had forgotten all about his case by now, or at least shelved it since there weren’t any life-threatening symptoms to speed up the process. Whenever Harry got down to the lab to check for updates, they only shrugged at him, muttering and frowning as they attempted to analyse the various tests they had Harry perform on his poor patient. Or rather, patients.

Because, during the last fortnight, no less than eleven people had shown up to join Mr Jugson in Harry’s new Slowmongitis ward. Just one more, and Harry would have an entire baker’s dozen of slow-motioned patients to attend to, and he feared their number would only increase if he didn’t find a solution to this conundrum soon.

The once-upon-a-time cupboard had endured so many extension charms lately that it was threatening to collapse completely from the strain of holding itself together, and the pile of patient files on Harry’s desk only seemed to grow higher by the minute. Apart from his own diagnostics results and observations records, there were also research journals from the lab and meticulous notes from the statements Harry had persuaded his patients’ friends and relatives to give. Together, all these documents made up a confusing puzzle. A puzzle Harry was dying to solve.

He had no idea how many extra hours he’d spent in his office these last couple of weeks, going through the documents over and over again in search of an answer. Harry had never had any reason to mistrust his gut feeling before — quite the contrary, his hunches had saved lives many times over — so why start questioning it now? He just knew the solution to this case was buried somewhere deep within all those seemingly disconnected facts and figures. He just needed to find it.

* * *

It took another week before anything happened — another week of incompetent lab workers, lackadaisical executives, and trance-like movements driving Harry half-insane — before the executive board finally deigned to consider the fate of his Slowmongitis patients.

The reason; the Chief Healer’s son was infected.

And in a flash, all of St Mungo’s were in a tizzy, everyone all but frantic in their desire to find both cause and cure for the perplexing symptoms of Mr Jugson and his fellows up in Harry’s makeshift ward. Although relieved to finally gain management’s attention to his case, Harry was nevertheless tempted to march straight into the Chief Healer’s office and point out the inappropriateness of the board’s sudden change of mind.

Instead, he bit his tongue and went to his ward to care for his patients. With the addition of Chief Healer Hinmity’s kid, there were now a total of twenty-three unfortunate souls occupying the former supply cupboard. And even though there wasn’t much he could do to actually help, Harry had spent enough time with them during the last month for all of them to have earned a special place in his heart.

Plus, being in the presence of his dear slow-mos actually helped to soothe his frazzled nerves. Despite the frustration of wanting but not knowing how to heal them, Harry found being surrounded by people living their lives in slow-motion had a pleasantly relaxing effect — as if his body was inspired by them and wanted to adjust to the moderate pace of their doings.

Channelling this inner peace was the only thing keeping Harry calm the next morning.

He had but reached the fourth-floor landing as the bright blue memo had come flying towards him and nearly hit him in the eye. _And people keep saying I should get rid of my glasses_ , Harry had muttered as he’d unfolded the plane-shaped parchment projectile and skimmed its content.

Chief Healer Hinmity had called for an emergency meeting, summoning all Ward Managers to his gaudy boardroom for an update on the Slowmongitis issue. Despite these gatherings ordinarily being exclusive to the higher-ups, Harry hadn’t been too surprised to learn his boss required his presence for the hearing. It was no secret among the staff that Senior Healer Codswallop never had a clue about anything going on — in his ward, or elsewhere. Surely, he had anticipated a myriad of questions about Harry’s patients during this meeting — questions he would’ve never been able to answer — and by bringing Harry along, he had assured himself a safe spot out of the line of fire.

And so here Harry was, after nearly an hour and a half, _still_ answering questions and listening to poorly made excuses instead of tending to his patients. So far, it had felt like he was the only one in the room wanting to find a solution, the rest more interested in defending their own arses and staying as far away as possible from anything remotely close to responsibility or compassion. Harry felt ready to explode from pent-up frustration and reminded himself to take deep, unhurried breaths as he turned to meet the watery eyes of the ancient manager of St Mungo’s Hospital’s Laboratory for Cures and Remedies.

“ _Healer_ Potter,” she said, emphasising his low-rank title to stress her displeasure with his attendance in their lofty midst. “I want you to know that my team consists of some of the brightest and most accomplished potioneers, researchers, and analysts in the country — experts who’ve worked day and night for almost a month attempting to find both the cause and the cure for your patients’ current condition.”

“I’m sure they have, _Senior Healer_ Sourpuss _,_ ” Harry lied, his most friendly smile covering the disdain simmering under the surface. “Please, do tell. Have they come to any conclusions yet?”

“No, not yet.” Her brusque tone and narrowed eyes clearly conveyed her opinion on Harry calling her out among her peers.

The following silence seemed to stretch forever before Chief Healer Hinmity cleared his throat, effectively drawing everyone’s attention to where he was seated at the head of the long polished oak table.

“Grizelda,” he said, addressing the lab manager, “I was just thinking… With your many many years in this profession and your long-time partaking in prestigious collaborations with your peers all over the continent, you must have an outstanding network of experts you’d be able to turn to for consultation?”

The wrinkles on Senior Healer Sourpuss’s forehead deepened as the woman frowned, as if she were actually considering the request. They all stayed quiet as they waited for her answer. Apparently, she needed quite some time to skim through her vast mental catalogue of people she’d met through the years. When at last she spoke, it was with a wistful look in her eyes.

“Well, I met this wizard once… A Monsieur Lecurieu. We both attended the International Potion Research Congress in Marseilles in ‘74, and he was the most brilliant potioneer I’ve ever met. Dedicated his whole career to research, trying to find the ultimate process for affliction definition and classification.”

Something light and fluttery surged in Harry’s chest. It sounded exactly like what they needed, almost too good to be true. _Which usually means it is_ , Harry reminded himself, as he quelled his premature hope in wait for the inevitable _but_.

“If there’s anyone out there capable of solving your problem, it’d be Armand,” Sourpuss mused.

_‘Your’ problem?_ Harry bit his tongue to prevent himself from pointing out that the well-being of his patients was an issue for all of them; her, too.

“However…”

Ah, there it was; the fancy _but_.

“However?” prodded Senior Healer Codswallop, voicing the sentiment of everyone present. Harry startled at his boss’s unexpected voice; he was fairly sure the man beside him had been more than half-asleep for at least three-quarters of an hour.

“Well… It must be over forty years since I last saw him. I don’t even know if he’s still alive…”

“Only one way to find out, right?” urged the Chief Healer, piercing her with a levelled look.

“Yes, I guess so,” she agreed obediently before giving him a curt nod.

* * *

Maybe Harry should’ve seen it coming; should’ve predicted the impending end of his life as he knew it; should’ve sensed the sparks of destiny charging the air around him the moment Senior Healer Sourpuss’s memo landed on his desk.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he smiled as he skimmed the note, feelings of relief and hope surging through him at the prospect of finally being able to help his ever-growing group of slow-mos return to some resemblance of normalcy.

Monsieur Armand Lecurieu was indeed alive, thank Merlin, and while he’d respectfully declined to rush to their aid himself, he had agreed to send his most promising apprentice; the one wizard he’d taught everything he knew; the one and only wizard he was confident would be able to help them.

And this protege, this potioneer extraordinaire — Harry’s knight in shining armour — would arrive as early as tomorrow morning.

When Harry headed home two hours later, it was with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

— ¤ — ¤ —


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_Now_

* * *

“Seriously though,” Draco says between featherlight kisses as he trails his fingertips lazily along Harry’s spine, “shouldn’t we at least get up and make ourselves some breakfast?”

“You hungry?” Harry murmurs, sucking on Draco’s lower lip and eliciting a soft moan from his husband. Pleased by the response, Harry smiles and starts mouthing a trail of wet kisses along Draco’s sharp jawline. The usually so-clean-shaven skin is roughened by a day-old stubble, and Harry revels in the rare sensation of it as it tickles his lips and tongue and chin.

“Not really, but—”

“Then, what’s the rush?”

Harry nibbles on the soft spot next to Draco’s ear, licking at his earlobe before he catches it in his mouth and gives a greedy suck. Draco whimpers and tightens his hold around Harry’s waist, his warm palm pressing firmer against the skin of Harry’s lower back.

“If you don’t mind,” Harry whispers right next to Draco’s ear, “I’d rather keep doing this.”

A noticeable shudder is Draco’s only response, followed by a low groan as Harry’s hand ventures down to slip a finger underneath the waistband of Draco’s fancy silk boxers. The guttural sound goes straight to Harry’s core, igniting the ever-present desire that sneaked in and took residence deep within him long before he knew what was going on; long before he even knew he wasn’t only attracted to girls.

When he was finally made aware of its existence — Harry can even pinpoint the exact moment it happened down to the minute: 8th June 2010 at 9.26 a.m. — it was already too late to fight it. Not that he really wanted to, mind you, but still.

“Do you ever think of that day,” he murmurs against Draco’s perfect pale skin, “when you barged into my life again after all those years in France?”

“Yeah,” Draco chuckles, “I remember you looking like you’d seen an Inferius or something.”

Smiling at the memory, Harry murmurs, “It almost felt like I did. I hadn’t seen you since the trial; hadn’t heard a single word about you since you left the country.”

He draws back to take in the glorious sight of his husband; all rosy cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and sparkling silver-grey eyes. It’s remarkable how easily the sight of this man is still able to stun him, even after all these years.

“And then one day,” he continues, “you were suddenly there — as if conjured straight from the distant past — just standing in my doorway, looking like…”

* * *

_Then_

* * *

…s _ex on legs!_

_What the Bloody Hell?_

Draco fucking Malfoy was standing in his doorway, casually leaning against the doorframe as if he belonged; as if he came to visit Harry in his office every other day. And not only that. He was wearing _Muggle clothes_ ; tight black jeans hugging his long lean legs, tucked into shiny black boots; an open black suit jacket over a sapphire-blue button-down that complemented his eyes perfectly. The two buttons being left open at the collar revealed a hint of sharp collarbones at the base of his neck, and his hair— oh dear Merlin, his hair… Apparently, sometime during the last decade, Malfoy had decided to ditch the severe slick-combed look for the same kind of artful tousle Muggle fashion models tended to flaunt, and combined with the amused twinkle in his eyes and that familiar smirk curving his rosy lips, he looked—

_Fuck!_

Malfoy looked positively gorgeous.

_How the hell did that happen? When? Why?_

Malfoy cleared his throat and Harry could only watch in fascination as Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down along the length of his pale slender neck. Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as parchment, and gave himself a mental shake to return from his momentary daze. (Even with how everything eventually turned out between them, Harry would forever deny the allegation that he’d just been staring at the man with his mouth agape.)

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

His voice sounded embarrassingly strained and high-pitched. Maybe even a little breathless. _For fuck’s sake, Harry, pull yourself together!_

“Well, hello to you, too,” Malfoy drawled, the corner of his mouth rising a little higher as his annoying smirk grew wider. “Long time, no see.”

_What the fuck?_

Harry’s brain cells finally managed to arouse from their stupor thanks to Malfoy’s casual demeanour. “Miss me, did you?”

“Did you?” Malfoy countered without skipping a beat.

“Ha! As if the sight of you,” _— looking like that —_ “would ever be beneficial to my mental state.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Malfoy sniggered, looking awfully smug as he pushed away from the doorframe to saunter inside and drop down on one of Harry’s visitor’s chairs. Harry knew full well how uncomfortable those chairs were, and still, Malfoy managed to look perfectly at ease. _What the hell does he think he’s doing?_

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry gritted, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Malfoy only shrugged, inspecting his perfectly manicured cuticles. “Just thought I’d catch up with an old school mate.”

“ _School mate?_ Really, Malfoy?” Harry spluttered, incredulous. “As if you’d come all the way here, from wherever you’re hiding these days, just to catch up? _With me?_ ”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy snorted with a dismissal wave of his hand, “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood and heard you were around.”

“You just—?”

Harry was speechless. There were literally no words coming out of his mouth. And even worse, he had a feeling he was gaping again.

“So, a Healer, huh?” Malfoy continued, curiously taking in the cramped space that made up Harry’s office. “How ever did that happen? I always assumed you’d end up an Auror.”

“Well, I don’t know…” Harry says, confused by the sudden change of topic. “I like helping people, I guess. Yeah, it’s true I once wanted to be an Auror, but in the end, healing those in need turned out to be more satisfying than chasing dark— Why am I telling you this?”

Harry blinked. Malfoy’s amused grin was terribly distracting.

“Because I asked, and you decided to be polite for once?” Harry huffed at the veiled barb, earning himself nothing but a teasing rise of one neat blond eyebrow. “Well, how should I know, Potter? It’s always been impossible to figure out how your brain works.”

“Oh, sod off.”

“Why, I just got here? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

The feigned aghast expression — all widened eyes and diva-esque palm pressed against his chest, fingers splayed wide — was not funny. Not funny at all, damn it; only annoying. Harry bit the inside of his cheek and inhaled deeply through his nose.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, silently counting down from ten, “why on earth would you think I’d ever be pleased to see you?”

“Well, why wouldn’t you? I’m a pleasure to look at, aren’t I?” Malfoy winked and straightened his posture, reminding Harry of a preening peacock.

“I-I—”

Harry faltered, powerless to stop his gaze from roaming. He hated that Malfoy was right — always had, always would — but if Harry’d ever seen a man worthy of the epithet _eye-candy_ , this was him. _Fuck!_ He was so hot; with that blond tousle going on up there, and those snug thigh-hugging jeans down there, and that form-fitting shimmering shirt that—

Harry tore his eyes away from the tantalising vee of Malfoy’s open collar, only to be met by bright grey eyes glittering with mischief. Harry was painfully aware of the blush spreading over his cheeks, not to mention the heat stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“I went into potions myself,” Malfoy said casually, as if they did this every day, totally ignoring Harry’s flustered state even if it must’ve been as obvious as an Erumpent in a wand shop. “Not that it’d come as a surprise, I suppose, I’ve always been rather good with potions, after all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Malfoy’s sudden appearance and strange behaviour had thrown him totally off-kilter. This was all so surreal; him, there, looking like that, chitchatting as if they were old friends. As if he didn’t remember…

_Shit! What if he didn’t? What if he’d taken a bad spell to his head? Maybe Malfoy’s a new Janus Thickey patient? Oh, fuck! That must be it, there’s really no other explanation…_

Fortunately, Harry had ten years of experience handling spell-damaged people. He knew the only thing to do in a situation like this would be to humour the man. So that’s what he did.

“Good for you,” he said, offering Malfoy his friendliest smile, “I’m happy to hear you’ve done well for yourself. Now, if you don’t mind, I have important things to do, so if you’d just—” Harry stopped himself just in time. He was a grownup now, a professional; he could be polite, even to his former school rival. “Thank you for popping by, Malfoy. It was really nice seeing you.”

Harry still had no idea what the annoying prat was doing in his office, and he really didn’t have time for any more of this bizarre out-of-the-blue reunion. He had an entire ward of patients to check in with. Plus, he reminded himself, he needed to get down to the lab to greet the new French potioneer who—

_No._

_No, no, no._

Harry took another look at the smirking man before him. _This can’t be happe—_

“My pleasure,” Malfoy said with a polite nod, standing from his chair and straightening out his shirt-sleeves from under the hems of his suit jacket. _Cufflinks? Who the hell wears cufflinks these days?_ “Well, I’d better be going, anyway. Senior Healer Sourpuss has offered to show me the lab, and then I need to settle in. Thank you for your time, Healer Potter. I do hope we’ll meet again soon.”

_No!_

“I-I—” Harry blinked at Malfoy’s retreating back, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare. Unsuccessful, he opened his mouth instead, to say something clever — or just anything, really — but coherence failed him once again.

“Well, in fact,” Malfoy added, turning around in the open doorway, hopefully not catching the dumbfounded look on Harry’s face, “it seems like I’ll be in town for a while. Maybe we should meet up sometime? Have a proper catch-up over a pint or two?”

The infuriating man didn’t even wait for a reply. He just winked — _winked?_ — and disappeared in the direction of the elevators.

_No._

_Fuck, no!_

* * *

But it didn’t matter how much Harry wished his former school rival away; Draco sodding Malfoy was here to stay — at least until this case was solved — and as much as it hurt to admit, if Harry ever wanted to be able to cure his slow-mo patients, he needed Malfoy’s alleged expertise.

Which was about as ironic as it could get, really. Harry wanted Malfoy gone, preferably yesterday, but to make that happen this case needed to be cracked — and that entailed having to collaborate with the same annoying prat he wanted to get rid of in the first place.

Harry wasn’t even sure a collaboration between the two of them would ever be possible. In his thirty years on this planet, Harry still hadn’t met anyone able to get under his skin as easily as Malfoy always could, and to be honest, he didn’t even know how they would manage to be in the same room together for more than five minutes at a time. Especially not as long as Malfoy insisted on looking like—

_No, Harry, damn it!_

But it didn’t matter how much Harry tried to get the image of Malfoy out of his head, it seemed to have been etched to the forefront of his mind just as permanently as Walburga Black’s portrait to its wall in the hallway of 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry gritted his teeth and slashed his wand through the air, harder than necessary. The extra power caused the Duplication Charm to quadruple the patients’ medical records instead of just doubling them, setting off a cascade of manilla folders to pour over the edge of his desk and all over the office floor.

_Fuck!_

Harry growled, glaring daggers at the mess and all but stomping his foot in frustration. This was all Malfoy’s bloody fault. Him, and his stupid hair, and his teasing comments, and that weird friendly behaviour, and— Merlin, the mere thought of the man drove Harry up the wall. And now Harry had to work with him? What a fucking joke!

_Okay, calm down, Harry, you can do this. You are a professional._

_That’s it; just breathe._

Yes, Malfoy was infuriating, he always had been, but Harry had never let the man bring him down before. Sure, this new sex-god version came with a whole new set of challenges, but Harry had faced much worse than this and managed to survive. He’d taken down Voldemort, for fuck’s sake; Malfoy 2.0 should be a piece of cauldron cake.

What did the prat think he was doing anyway; coming in here and looking like that, being all sassy and smug and sexy as all fuck? So, he was wearing Muggle clothes; so what? A lot of people Harry knew wore Muggle clothes, that didn’t make them look sexier. That didn’t make them able to tilt Harry’s entire world on its axis.

No, the only reason Malfoy had been able to get to him just now was that he’d been able to take Harry by surprise. Well, that advantage had been effectively ruined as soon as Malfoy had appeared in his doorway. Now that Harry knew the prat was around, he wouldn’t be able to catch him off guard again.

Smiling, and boosted with a fresh bout of confidence, Harry started to sort out the sea of folders occupying his floor. He could do this. If Malfoy wanted weird friendly banter, that’s what he’d get. In spades. Two could play at this game, and this time Harry had the upper hand. Malfoy wouldn’t know what hit him.

* * *

It took two days before Malfoy appeared in Harry’s doorway again, looking just as horribly gorgeous as the last time.

After their first impromptu meeting, Harry had sent over a two-foot pile of case documentation for Malfoy to dig into, wrapped in a rich green silk ribbon with a neat bow on top. (Harry had considered tucking a single red rose under the ribbon as well — just because — but ultimately decided against it, opting instead for a handwritten note saying, “Dear Mr Malfoy, I’d love to hear your opinion on this at your earliest convenience. Please let me know when you’re willing and able to meet up. Sincerely, Healer Potter.”)

Harry hadn’t heard anything from Malfoy after that, something he would’ve been most inclined to consider a victory if he didn’t suspect the only reason for this was Malfoy hiding away in his lab plotting his counterstrike.

Harry felt his presence like a tingle up his spine before any of his regular senses kicked in.

“Healer Potter,” he said, voice smooth as silk and totally devoid of those harsh spitting consonants Harry’s surname once used to provoke from his mouth.

Harry willed back the smirk from his lips as he put down his quill. _Game time_.

“Mr Malfoy,” he said, looking up to take in the sight before him. _Good Godric_. Harry’d had two days to come to terms with it, two days to prepare for this inevitable encounter, and yet—

“Can you spare me a moment of your time?”

“But, of course,” Harry smiled, ignoring his speeding heart as he gestured towards his visitor’s chair. “For you, all the time in the world.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said with a polite nod, moving to take a seat in the rickety chair in front of Harry’s desk.

If it weren’t for his six years of all-but-obsessive Malfoy-watching, Harry would probably have missed the minuscule twitch of those pale blond brows that conveyed his friendly greeting had indeed startled the man. The observation lit a sudden spark of excitement in Harry’s chest; a sensation — he realised only later — he hadn’t experienced in years before that very moment.

“So,” Harry said once Malfoy was seated, looking just as suave and at ease on the uncomfortable chair as he’d done two days ago. “How’s Britain treating you? Have you had time to settle in alright?”

“Barely,” Malfoy said with a hint of a smirk. “ _Someone_ decided to send me a neat little pile of light reading to go through.”

Harry swallowed down a chuckle and schooled his face in feigned innocence. “Why, that sounds like a rather odd homecoming gift, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” Malfoy said, allowing the corner of his mouth to curve into a wry smile, “but then, the giver is rather odd, too, so it was only to be expected.”

“Very well, then,” Harry said, aware that his amusement must be showing in his eyes, no matter how much he fought it. Malfoy may be infuriating, and his appearance terribly distracting, but his sassy wit was a pleasant surprise at least — a refreshing change from Harry’s colleagues’ endless grumbling and his friends’ constant concern. “Have you had any time to form an opinion?”

“Yes, he’s obviously a complete tosser.”

Harry almost choked on the bout of laughter suddenly trying to rise up his throat. “ _Obviously_ ,” he drawled as soon as the threat had abated. “Well, you two should get along splendidly then.”

With his one brow raised so high, Malfoy looked almost impressed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said, finally allowing his lips to form a friendly smile — a smile that turned into a straight-out grin as he watched Malfoy’s pale cheeks take on a rosy tint.

“Right…”

Once more, Harry was struck by the absurdity of it all; them, together — not hexing each other, but talking. Well, maybe bickering would be closer to the truth. Or friendly banter? Honestly, Harry had no idea what this was exactly, other than it was unlike anything they’d ever done before. And yet, somehow it felt strangely familiar — which was confusing, really, especially when Malfoy looked at him with that abashed twinkle in his bright grey eyes.

Malfoy was first to regain his composure, effectively puncturing the outstretched silence by clearing his throat.

“So,” he said, his voice rougher than Harry’d ever heard it before, “about the case…”

“Yes,” Harry blurted, eager to leave the weird moment behind, “have you come to any conclusions yet?”

“Nothing definitive, but I do have some theories.”

“You do?” Harry exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. “That’s—” _brilliant_ would’ve been his next word if Malfoy hadn’t cut him off.

“Yes, quite,” he said, “although… since your lab staff are utter imbeciles— By the way, what’s wrong with you Britons? You’re—”

“Hey!” Now, it was Harry’s turn to interrupt. “You’re a Brit, too, you know. Just because you moved to France doesn’t mean—”

“Hmmm, actually it’s quite interesting…” Malfoy mused, totally ignoring Harry’s rant as he stroked his pointy chin with slender fingers and eyed Harry with a curious frown. “Maybe it’s something to do with the water? I should really…”

“You were saying?” Harry urged, irritated by the content smirk on those rosy lips (which didn’t look at all kissable, thank you very much).

“Well, yes…” Malfoy said, “Your lab staff… I have no idea what they’ve been doing all this time, but it’s certainly not anything to do with your patients.”

“Excuse me?” Harry said, incredulous, “They’ve had me run a gazillion tests—”

“Yes, I know, I’ve read the files,” Malfoy said. “Problem is, though, they haven’t done anything useful with any of it.”

“What!?” Harry squeaked, his voice strained and far too high-pitched for his own liking. “They haven’t—?” Malfoy just shook his head in response. “But— then, what _have_ they been doing?”

“I—” Malfoy sighed, exasperated, “I have absolutely no idea, Potter. Playing Exploding Snap?”

“Explodi—?” No, that surely couldn’t be true. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

“Wish I was, but no,” Malfoy said, actually looking sincere. “Apparently, Snap is one of the most important tasks on the daily agenda down there.”

“You’re actually serious?”

“Yes. They even have a weekly tournament, complete with a betting pool and everything.”

“Fuck,” Harry breathed. If Malfoy was right… No wonder Harry never received any answers from down there.

Sourpuss’s words echoed in Harry’s mind: … _some of the brightest and most accomplished potioneers, researchers, and analysts… …experts who’ve worked day and night for almost a month…_ How much did she really know? How much did Chief Healer Hinmity know? This needs to be—

_Not now, Harry! Focus on what’s important; focus on your patients._

Harry gave himself a mental shake and sighed. “So, what do we do now?”

“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Malfoy said, matter-of-factly. “As I said, I have some theories, but I’ll need to meet with the patients to be able to confirm anything.”

“Er—” Harry hesitated, momentarily taken aback by an old instinctual suspiciousness that Malfoy apparently still was able to provoke in him. “The labbers aren’t usually allowed inside the wards,” he said levelly as Malfoy’s jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed to slits. “They’re not supposed to be interacting with the patients—”

“But I’m—”

“Not one of them, I know,” Harry hastened to cut him off before Malfoy’s agitation (currently tinting his cheeks an intriguing rosy pink) grew any wilder. “You’re _Monsieur Mel-foi_ ,” Harry proclaimed in his poshest and most ridiculous-sounding Frenglish, “ _Potioneer Extraordinaire et verrry important-e_.”

Malfoy’s pursed lips twitched distinctly as he shook his head at Harry’s antics, causing a stray lock of platinum-blond to escape his fancy tousle and fall in front of his eyes. Harry swallowed, willing himself to maintain his casual grin even as he struggled not to drown in those unfathomable, silvery pools glittering with mirth.

The silence stretched, charging a strange sort of tension in the air around them. Harry could almost feel it crackling on his skin, running like tendrils of sparks along his spine, down his arms, and out to his fingertips. He wanted to— _to touch—_

_Damn_. It took all Harry’s Gryffindor determination to will himself to blink, finally breaking the weird moment.

_Shit. What the hell was that?_

_Now’s not the time, Harry — Focus._

_Right._

Harry mustered up a friendly smile.

“Oh, come on then,” he said, moving to stand from his chair, “They’re just down the hall.”

* * *

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon watching Malfoy interact with the patients, talking to them and earning their trust enough for several of them to let him cast his own strange diagnostic spells. Harry hadn’t seen any of those spells before and didn’t want to ask about them at the risk of disturbing Malfoy’s work. Instead, he just hung back and observed the man as he frowned at yet another red glow, as he bit his lower lip in concentration while studying the test results and scribbling another note on his parchment pad.

Unfortunately, regular speech wasn’t an option for communication with the patients. Harry had tried many times over the last month, but with their mouths and vocal cords just as affected by the strange condition as the rest of their bodies, there was no way for them to manage it. To Harry’s great surprise, though, Malfoy showed proof of endless patience and consideration as he managed to question a couple of the patients by means of hand-holding. Sitting face to face with a patient, holding their hands in his, he was able to ask them several yes-or-no questions, getting the patients’ responses by having them squeezing one hand or the other depending on the answer. It was slow work, but apparently, it paid off since Malfoy scribbled away furiously on his notes after every encounter.

One of the first patients he talked to was Lori, an eight-year-old girl with curly brown hair and an abundance of light freckles adorning her nose and cheeks. Harry didn’t grasp much of their conversation, too distracted by the sight of Malfoy sitting there holding her hands and smiling encouragingly, but readily obliged when Malfoy asked him afterwards to help her with some drawing equipment. At the time, Harry had thought she’d only expressed her boredom to Malfoy, but as it turned out, he’d given her a task to help him in his quest for an answer to the Slowmongitis enigma.

“Interesting,” he said as he inspected her drawing a few hours later. His neat eyebrows were furrowed in a deep frown as he took in what looked like an ordinary-looking butterfly. A rather dull one actually, at least compared to the colourful pictures Rose and Hugo usually drew for Harry; plain and simple, coloured a pale greyish brown. Several of the other patients gave Malfoy a slow nod as he showed them the drawing, and when he finally turned to look at Harry, his stormy-grey eyes conveyed a strange mix of satisfaction, pride and determination.

It was already half seven when they finally left the ward. Harry’s shift had ended several hours before, but there was no way he’d leave Malfoy alone with his patients. He tried to tell himself it was because he still couldn’t trust Malfoy, but deep down he knew that wasn’t the real reason. Rather, if he was honest, it was the opportunity to watch Malfoy in action that had made him decide to stick around. Seeing him interact with the patients had proved to be strangely fascinating, especially with the younger ones. Whenever he’d turned his focus to one of the children, Malfoy’s features had softened, his expression turning warm and concerned, almost affectionate. It was a peculiar thing to witness, Draco Malfoy openly showing affection, and Harry caught himself wondering what it’d feel like to be on the receiving end of that look.

“So, tell me,” Harry said as they walked side by side down the corridor to his office, “have you come anywhere closer to the truth?”

“Yes, I have,” Malfoy smiled, looking down at him sideways from the corner of his eye. “Much closer, actually.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry grinned and tried his best not to acknowledge how much Malfoy’s few extra inches affected him. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve come up with?”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said with amusement, smirking as Harry’s stomach chose that precise moment to give a low rumble, “but it sounds like that’ll have to wait until tomorrow since I’m guessing you have dinner company waiting for you at home.”

_At home?_ No, there was no one waiting for Harry at home, hadn’t been for several years. Briefly, Harry wondered if Malfoy had anyone waiting for him back home at the end of the day, before he remembered Malfoy was only in town temporarily and probably stayed at some hotel somewhere, equally alone.

“I don’t, actually,” Harry said, stopping at his office door and turning fully towards his companion. “How about you? Any dinner plans?”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to a very satisfying date…” Harry had just enough time to notice a sudden sting of something ugly in his chest before Malfoy continued, “…with the room-service menu.”

“Care to join me for a bite at the pub?” Harry blurted before he could stop himself. “You could tell me all about your discoveries over dinner.”

“That eager to pry into all my secrets, are you?” Malfoy chuckled.

His words were innocent enough, yet there was something about the way he said it that made it sound almost suggestive; titillating. Harry wished the ground would swallow him up when he heard himself saying, “Maybe…” in a low and embarrassingly sultry voice.

“Then I’ll insist on a really good bottle of wine to go with that meal.”

“By all means,” Harry smirked, ignoring the incessant fluttering going on in the pit of his stomach. “If you behave, I’ll even let you choose the label.”

He almost couldn’t believe he’d had the audacity to say it, but it was all worth it, he decided when he watched Malfoy’s eyes darken and his pale porcelain cheeks blushing.

“As if I’d let you choose!” Malfoy scoffed in mock indignation before adding, “Don’t worry, I can behave if presented with the right incentives.”

“Lovely. Meet you downstairs in ten?”

“Sure.”

Malfoy turned on his heel and sauntered down the corridor towards the elevators. Harry couldn’t help watching his retreating back, or rather, his swaying hips and that perfectly rounded arse. _Hot damn!_ Unfortunately, just then Malfoy slowed down and turned around, catching him looking.

“By the way, _Healer Potter_ , just so you know,” he said, smirking as he continued walking backwards. “I’m exceptionally good at being naughty, too.”

_Oh fuck_. Harry wanted to growl, he wanted to pounce, excitement burning in his chest as he watched Malfoy turn back around with a wink and disappear around the corner.

He had a strong feeling they were both biting off more than they could chew, letting their ever-present competitiveness get the best of them in the name of the game. With their shared history, Harry was rather certain neither of them would be prone to back off anytime soon, either, but interestingly enough, he found he didn’t care. This was the most fun he’d had in years, and whatever happened between them this time could certainly not be anywhere near as terrible as what they’ve already done to each other in the past.

* * *

“ _Sloth moths?_ ”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, sipping on his ridiculously fancy wine. “Sloth moths. They’re a very peculiar species, spending their whole lives living in the fur of sloths.”

“Sloths?” Harry echoed, incredulous. “For real? Those incredibly lazy animals in… Africa? South America?”

“South America, yes.”

“No,” Harry protested, taking a swig of his pint. “No, you’re having me on, Malfoy, that’s the craziest—”

“No, I’m serious, Potter, haven’t you noticed them scratching the bites?”

“The mosquito bites? Sure, but—”

“They aren’t mosquito bites,” Malfoy insisted. “I’m telling you, Potter, they’re sloth moth bites.”

“How would you know? They look just like mosquito bites to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do,” Malfoy said, looking awfully smug, “only, how often have you had a regular mosquito bite that lasted an entire month?”

“I—”

Harry blinked, baffled. Surely, it must be a joke? Malfoy can’t really—

“The real question is, how did your patients come in contact with them in the first place?” Malfoy said before taking a bite of his bœuf bourguignon, chewing on it thoughtfully before swallowing it down with another sip of wine. “These little buggers usually only leave their host animal to lay eggs; what would suddenly make them search out these people? And where?”

“I have a theory about the _where,_ at least,” Harry said, jumping on the chance to contribute with his own piece to the puzzle.

“You do?” Malfoy said, “Please, do tell. I’m dying to know what your inscrutable brain has been able to cook up this time.”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Harry said, not completely successful in trying to hold back his amusement. When Malfoy wrapped his insults like that, with humour and sass, and presented them in that posh voice of his, it was really hard to take offence. “Well, I’ve been trying to make some sense out of all the relatives’ and friends’ statements, going through them in search for common threads and such.”

Harry popped another forkful of battered fish into his mouth, reminding himself of his current company and taking good care to chew and swallow before continuing. He had almost felt like an Auror this last week, going through page after page of witness statements, attempting to identify any details that may lead him in the right direction of finding out how they all came to be infected. He’d even rearranged his office to clear one wall where he’d drawn up a chart, similar to the investigation boards seen in all those crime movies, where he’d put any information that could be tied to the case. It had been boring and tedious work, at times even feeling totally redundant, but in the end, it had paid off.

If Malfoy had shown patience with the patients earlier, he had apparently run fresh out of it now. As Harry savoured his food, Malfoy all but jumped in his seat in his eagerness to find out what Harry was about to divulge. It was rather cute, really, and Harry decided to treat himself with a long, slow swig of his ale just to be able to prolong the anticipation as much as possible. By the time he put the glass down on the worn tabletop, Malfoy was urging him on with an impatient hand gesture.

“Yeah, yeah, let a man breathe,” Harry chuckled. “Well, as it turns out, those twenty-three people have been in an awful lot of places and done a humongous amount of things during those last two days before they were admitted.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Malfoy drawled, then took another sip of his posh wine.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Harry grinned, deciding to be finished with his food and pushing his plate to the side. “Interestingly enough, the only thing that’s come up in all twenty-three statements is a visit to Diagon Alley about eight hours before showing the first symptoms.”

“Diagon Alley?” Malfoy frowned. “But… Whatever would a sloth do in Diagon Alley?”

“That’s what I wanna know.”

A contemplative silence settled between them, not strained by any means, but loud enough to block out the general buzz in the pub. Grasping for something to do, Harry raised his glass to his lips again, only to find it empty.

“Do you want another glass of wine?” he asked, silently hoping for a yes. Considering the company, the evening had been surprisingly pleasant so far, and Harry didn’t want it to end quite yet.

Malfoy looked up, meeting his gaze with questioning eyes. Harry bit his lower lip while waiting for his answer with bated breath.

“By all means,” he said, and damned if his voice didn’t sound rougher than usual. “The night is still young, right?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, then, at the sight of Malfoy’s mischievous smile.

Despite having had no more than the one pint, Harry felt dizzy as he stood and made for the bar.

* * *

When asked about it later, Harry was never able to recall what else the two of them had talked about that night in the pub. He had memories of grinning so hard his jaw ached, of laughing, of drinking; of drinking in the sight of Malfoy relaxed and smiling, joking; of his bright grey eyes glittering with mirth; of his lips coloured a deep rose from the wine; of his elegant fingers cradling the wine glass; of the tantalising glimpse of collarbone where a couple of buttons of Malfoy’s white shirt had been left open. By the time the barkeep approached their table to inform them they were about to close, Harry almost couldn’t believe his ears.

“So, where are you staying?” Harry said once they were stood on the pavement in front of the pub.

“Claridge’s,” Malfoy said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the reputable hotel.

“Perfect,” Harry found himself saying, “I could use a walk.”

Malfoy looked at him dubiously, making Harry replay his words in his mind.

“That is if you don’t mind the company,” he added quickly, hoping the light from the nearby street lamp didn’t reveal his blush. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I’m fit for Apparition at the moment, plus I figured it’d be a nice evening for a stroll through town.”

It really was, too. The warmth of another sunny summer day still lingered in the air, freshened by a light breeze and the pleasant tranquillity of dusk. Sometime during the evening, Harry had lost count of how many pints he’d had, and when standing outside now, breathing in the invigorating evening air, he really didn’t feel like heading straight to bed.

“Alright,” Malfoy said with a wry smile, “let’s walk.”

And with that, Malfoy turned on his heel and set off, not even checking to see if Harry would come with. As if he just knew Harry would join him anyway. Which, of course, he did.

“I must say I’m a little surprised,” Malfoy said when Harry finally caught up with him. Harry glanced over at the man from the corner of his eye, amused. Malfoy was looking straight ahead, not giving a single sign he’d noticed Harry walking by his side, and yet he’d started talking to him as if he’d been there all along.

“How so?”

“I would’ve thought you’d be married with a handful of unruly children by now, yet I get the feeling you’re not?”

“You do, do you?” Harry chuckled, “Whatever gave me away?”

“I’m quite certain if you had sprogs, you’d be the kind of obnoxious father who’d never shut up about them, telling anyone willing to listen about how precious and amazing and brilliant they are.”

To be honest, Harry figured Malfoy wasn’t entirely wrong about that. He loved kids, and there were times when his whole being ached to one day have his own. “I can talk about Rose and Hugo if you like?”

“Rose and Hugo?”

“’Mione’s and Ron’s kids. They’re the most adorable cuties you’ll ever meet.”

“I highly doubt that,” Malfoy scoffed.

“You don’t like children?” Harry said, bemused. He thought back to how sweet and lovely Malfoy had been with Lori and the other younglings just earlier today. Surely, no one who didn’t like children would act like that.

“I do,” Malfoy said, and Harry had no idea what caused the sudden pang of relief that shot through him at Malfoy’s words. “I just can’t see any Weasley offspring ending up cute or adorable.”

“What the—?” Harry’s sudden indignation evaporated by the sound of Malfoy’s gleeful chortle. “Oh, fuck off.”

Harry bumped his shoulder against Malfoy’s, causing him to stagger for a moment before regaining his balance.

“Come on, I’m only kidding,” Malfoy laughed. “You know me, what else did you expect after serving me an opportunity like that? Don’t want it; don’t tempt me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said, suddenly very curious about what else some tempting could get him. He gave himself a mental shake, forcing back the very tantalising images his mind had readily started to conjure up before his eyes. What had they been talking about?

“So, no kids?” _Right_. “And no ring? Don’t tell me the hero’s single.”

“Alright, I’ll just stay quiet then, shall I?”

“Honestly? I thought every witch in Britain stood in line for a chance with the great Harry Potter…”

“They do.” Harry grinned at Malfoy’s surprised look before clearing his throat, adding, “Problem is, they want to date the hero, not me. It’s amazing how fast the allure vanishes as soon as they figure out I’m just an ordinary man like any other.”

Malfoy frowned, his mumble almost too quiet to catch in the evening buzz of the city. “Trust me, Potter, there’s nothing ordinary about you.”

Harry had a feeling he should be affronted by the comment — after all, he had always fought for his right to be ordinary — but when a beam of soft light from a passing window lit up Malfoy’s profile and Harry noticed the slight blush on his high cheekbones, the expected offence melted into fluttering delight. Mouth suddenly dry, Harry swallowed and focused on crossing Regent Street without getting hit by traffic.

“So, how about you?” Harry said once they were safely on the other side and turning around the corner into Brook Street. “Anyone missing you back home in France?”

“No, just Monsieur Lecurieu,” Malfoy said and shook his head, causing his blond locks to sway in front of his eyes. “And he’s about a century past childhood by now, and with his own Mediwitch and everything to care for him. I doubt he misses me much.”

Harry grinned, ignoring his rapidly beating heart as he listened to Malfoy launching into his first of many tales about his old and apparently ingenious Potions Master.

* * *

“Well, I guess we’ll see each other tomorrow then?” Harry said as they reached the hotel’s entrance. He still didn’t feel like going home to his empty flat, but it was a weeknight, after all, and they both had a case to crack tomorrow.

“I guess we will,” Malfoy said, turning to face him, “You better be ready to chase down those sloth moths then, Potter.”

“You better be ready to start brewing an effective antidote then, Malfoy.”

“You bet.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

In the faint light spilling out from the hotel lobby, Malfoy’s eyes looked like molten silver, dark and shiny and swirling with emotions. Harry tried to break away, he really did, but it was no use. They were like magnets, those eyes, drawing him in, holding him hostage. _Just like Malfoy’s presence always had_ , Harry realised, thinking back to their time at Hogwarts and remembering always taking notice whenever he spotted that white-blond hair in a crowd.

And now, over a decade later, they were standing here in the middle of the night, on a deserted street in the middle of Muggle London, no more than a wand’s length apart, staring into each other’s eyes. Harry would’ve been inclined to write this entire evening off as a weird dream if it hadn’t been for that warm smile curving Malfoy’s lips and making his eyes sparkle like Snitches in the sun. That smile was so far from anything Harry had ever seen expressed in his former school rival’s features, there was simply no way Harry’s mind would have been able to conjure it up.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice rough and a little breathless.

“Yeah?” Harry said, blinking and raising his gaze to meet Malfoy’s eyes. Only then did he realise he’d been staring at Malfoy’s lips.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Would you mind terribly if I…”

There was that blush again, Harry noticed with fascination as he waited for the end of that sentence which seemed to have been stuck in Malfoy’s throat. “If you…?” he prodded with a smirk.

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “If I— kissed you?”

All the air left Harry’s lungs in a rush, his racing heart making it impossible to form coherent words. Instead, Harry shook his head in answer, tilting his head back to meet Malfoy’s hesitant lips.

They tasted of rich red wine, of summer nights and elation, and yet what really made Harry heady was their softness, their warmth and the tentative way in which those lips brushed over his, slow and gentle and—

Much too brief.

Still to this day, Harry is embarrassed to admit the needy whimper escaping him as Malfoy drew back from that first kiss.

Eventually blinking his eyes open, having no memory of ever closing them, he was met with Malfoy’s amused smirk.

“Thank you for a surprisingly pleasant evening,” he said, and fuck if that low husky voice wasn’t about the hottest thing Harry had ever heard. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” was the only thing Harry was able to produce in response. “Yeah.”

Malfoy went for the door, turning around as he reached it to give Harry a wink. “Sweet Dreams.”

“S-sweet Dreams,” Harry stammered, watching Malfoy disappear inside.

It took another moment before he managed to come out of his temporary trance. When he did, he found himself tracing his lips with featherlight fingertips, acting more than anything like a smitten teenager on his first school dance. Feeling not a little pathetic, Harry sighed and set himself in motion, heading back through town in the direction of his flat.

— ¤ — ¤ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this [amazing piece of fanart by AnnaWolfArt](https://drarrelie.tumblr.com/post/615405198572158976), inspired by the 'first meeting' scene in the beginning of this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_Now_

* * *

“I _so_ wanted to invite you up to my room that night,” Draco says, combing his fingers through Harry’s unruly curls and pulling him down for another kiss.

“And I _so_ wanted you to,” Harry murmurs as he shifts his weight to support himself with one hand, freeing the other to roam over his husband’s chest and down his side to rest on his hip.

“Yes, I gathered that, once I found out where you lived,” Draco chuckles.

Harry smiles. He still remembers the stunned expression on Draco’s face the day he found out that the pub they’d been to that first night was literally just around the corner from Harry’s flat. He draws back to allow himself a proper look at those familiar features, at those mesmerising eyes. “You couldn’t tell before that?” he says, stroking his thumb back and forth over Draco’s protruding hip bone.

“I was being a gentleman,” Draco says, suddenly defensive, making Harry laugh for no reason at all except being totally adorable. “I was!” he insists, slapping Harry’s shoulder in an attempt at shutting him up but only making Harry laugh harder.

“I’m sorry,” Harry pants against the curve of Draco’s neck once he’s regained composure enough to breathe. “I’m sorry, love. You absolutely were.”

“Glad we’re agreed,” Draco mutters, trailing his fingertips down Harry’s spine. He grasps Harry’s arse cheeks firmly with both hands and Harry groans, thrusting against the body underneath him and earning himself a ragged moan from his lover. The following kiss is deeper and hungrier, nibbling and sucking and biting — as always, feeding without ever really satisfying their endless desire for each other.

When Harry finally lifts off to give them both a chance to breathe, Draco sighs and gives him a fond smile. “You know, I didn’t even know if you’d ever been with a man before, and I was so certain I only imagined those emotions I thought I saw in your eyes that night.”

“You didn’t,” Harry whispers, leaning down to kiss the tip of Draco’s nose.

“I know that now,” Draco murmurs as Harry shimmies down to catch a hardened nipple in his mouth.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve known each other for nearly three decades, that they’ve had ten years together in which Harry’s had time to get to know every inch of Draco’s body — there are still moments, like this one, when the mere notion of being allowed to touch his husband like this induces enough awe and gratitude to fill Harry’s heart to bursting.

Draco writhes under Harry’s touch, his body moving helplessly in response to Harry’s hands and lips and tongue and teeth as Harry makes his way down Draco’s torso; kissing, licking, sucking, nibbling; worshipping his husband and revelling in his luck of being bestowed with such a treasure in his life.

He reaches the golden curls adorning the base of Draco’s beautiful cock and looks up through his lashes at Draco who’s propped up on his elbows, meeting Harry’s gaze with lustful half-lidded eyes.

“That night,” Harry breathes, “Merlin, Draco, you just swept me off my feet with that kiss.”

“I’m glad I took the risk, then,” Draco murmurs in that husky voice that still has the ability to melt Harry’s bones to butter.

“Me too,” Harry smiles, blowing a puff of hot air over Draco’s semi-hardness and praising himself as he watches it twitch eagerly under his parted lips. “Awfully Gryffindorish of you, by the way; that kiss,” he murmurs, anticipating Draco’s retort at the not-quite-insult and stops it in its tracks by promptly taking him into his mouth.

Harry’s tactic has the desired effect, efficiently transforming the offended remark into a throaty groan as Draco arches off the bed in pure surprise. Noticing Draco’s hands clutching the sheets tightly, Harry can’t help moaning at the sight of his husband coming apart so easily by his ministrations. Draco shudders as the vibrations of Harry’s moan reverberate through his body, the reaction prompting Harry to release Draco’s cock to murmur, “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous, Draco.” After having Draco deep down his throat, his voice comes out hoarse and a little breathless. “Are you sure you’re not part Veela?”

“Oh, lay off with the flattery, you berk,” Draco scoffs, but the spoken rejection is belied by the pleasure and fondness showing in his warm grey eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I’m sure. And no, I’m not gorgeous.”

Harry looks down at his husband, naked and sprawled out on the bed before him. No, his body may not be perfect by any unattainable standards, but even with all his imperfections — or maybe thanks to them — Draco will always be perfect in Harry’s eyes. The pale scars are still there, crisscrossing Draco’s chest, forever a reminder of their violent past — but so are the reminders of what came after, the stretch marks adorning his stomach, the evidence of their love; of what they’ve been able to create together as a couple. The markings on Draco’s body may not be considered aesthetically perfect, but as they tell the story of their relationship, heavily laced with passion and strong emotions ever since their very first meeting, there’s no way Harry will ever consider his husband’s body anything but flawless.

“You are, though,” he murmurs against Draco’s lips before covering them with an affectionate kiss. “ _Le plus bel homme du monde_.”

“And you’re a hopeless sap,” Draco smiles, rolling his eyes at Harry’s perpetual ineptitude for French pronunciation.

“And you love me for it.”

“Merlin help me, but I do.”

* * *

_Then_

* * *

The next morning, Harry was sorely tempted to make a beeline for the lab on his way up to his office. While not nightmares, those sweet dreams Malfoy had wished him last night had turned out more hot and steamy than anything else, and Harry ached for another taste of those luscious lips.

Instead, he promptly pushed the button for the fourth floor and ignored the fluttery feeling in his stomach as the doors opened on the third to let out a handful of colleagues heading for Potions and Plants. He had more important things to take care of, he told himself. Apparently, there was a bloody sloth lurking somewhere in Diagon Alley that needed to be found and taken care of. Malfoy could wait.

Only— he wouldn’t, would he? As soon as the curing potion was brewed and proved working, Malfoy would go back to France, leaving Harry to his mundane life, and probably never think of him again. And Harry would go back to the way things were before — before Malfoy walked into his life and turned everything upside down — contenting himself with what’s never felt insufficient before, now knowing his days would always feel a little duller, his nights always a little lonelier.

Whatever Harry told himself, that kiss had probably never been anything more than a whim on Malfoy’s part; some ridiculous bucket list thing to indulge in when the opportunity suddenly presented itself. Harry groaned at his own stupidity. Merlin knew how many such bucket lists around Britain contained kissing the Saviour of the Wizarding World? Furthermore, Malfoy had always been one to mess with him, to set him up and prank him… Or what if it was a stupid dare his Slytherin friends had tricked him into once they knew who Malfoy was currently working with? Maybe it was all just an elaborate joke, something to laugh about with his friends at the next snakepit reunion?

What bothered him even more, though, Harry realised as he walked down the corridor towards his office, was the question nagging in the back of his head. Why did he care? Only twenty-four hours ago, this had all been just a game to him, too. So why did the idea of Malfoy only kissing him as a joke make Harry want to curl up in a blanket and watch bad movies while eating ice cream straight from the tub? Why did the image of Malfoy laughing about it with his friends make him want to scream into a pillow? Why did the thought of Malfoy going back to France make him feel so bloody hollow?

And then he thought back to the day before; to the sight of Malfoy patiently interacting with the patients; to the sound of his cheerful laughter in the pub; the riveting blush on his cheeks and the glittering mischief in his eyes; the scent of his shampoo as he leaned in to kiss him; the taste of his lips, the soft gentle touch of them against his own— No one kissed like that if they just did it for a laugh, did they? No, Harry was almost certain. No one could feign the affection he’d seen in those silvery eyes. And if Malfoy had just been fooling around, just seeking some entertainment while in town visiting, wouldn’t he have taken advantage of Harry’s obvious interest — _Because it had been rather obvious, hadn’t it?_ — and invited him upstairs for a quick fumble between the sheets before heading back home to France?

Harry didn’t dare hope for it, yet he held on to that notion like a lifeline as he went about his day, submerging himself in his work while trying to ignore the constant swirl of emotions preoccupying his thoughts. He contacted the DMLE, letting them sort out the hide-and-seek mission in Diagon Alley. He wrote a report for Chief Healer Hinmity, updating him of Malfoy’s new finds. The rest of his day was spent with his patients in the Slowmongitis Ward, confirming Malfoy’s theory by identifying and documenting the moth bites on all twenty-three patients.

At half-past two, a light green memo in the shape of a crane flew through his open office door to land on his desk.

_Has he cracked it already?_

Harry’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as he made for the elevators. How should he act? What should he say? Should he bring up last night, or should he ignore it, keeping the meeting professional? Would Malfoy?

It was ridiculous, really, and once more Harry felt like a smitten pathetic teenager getting ready to make a fool of himself in front of his crush.

_Godric, Harry, calm down! You’re thirty years old, for fuck’s sake; you should be able to act like an accomplished grown-up._

He stopped in front of the white door and took a deep breath. _St Mungo’s Hospital’s Laboratory for Cures and Remedies,_ the shiny brass plate told him. _Just another regular Healer errand,_ the shaky thirty-year-old told himself. Harry carded his fingers through his hair before reaching out and opening the door.

* * *

“ _Monsieur Malfoy_.”

Harry was fully aware of how awful his French pronunciation sounded, but he just couldn’t help it. It jumped out of his mouth as soon as he laid eyes on Malfoy’s tall figure by the workbench. Malfoy had apparently been given his own working area in the far corner of the spacious laboratory and, as Harry had passed the partition wall obscuring the view from the door, he’d found himself only a few yards from the man who’s been occupying his thoughts ever since last night. Or, if Harry was honest, ever since the man had first appeared in his office three days ago.

_Was it really only three days ago? Merlin, it feels like a lifeti—_

“Healer Potter,” Malfoy drawled, turning his head to look over his shoulder. The amused smirk curving the corner of his mouth went straight to Harry’s core, sending an instant thrill of excitement through his body. “Please remind me to never let you speak the language of love and romance in my presence ever again.”

It sure sounded like a challenge, might as well treat it as one. Harry straightened his posture and placed his hands on his hips in front of his open Healer robes.

“Why not?” he said defiantly, “Don’t you like it?”

Harry refused to acknowledge the fluttering in his belly as Malfoy’s words echoed through his mind — love… romance… again… — instead, watching Malfoy turn around, cross his arms in front of his chest and lean back against the counter. He was dressed in light blue today; a sheer billowing fabric underneath a navy pinstripe waistcoat that hugged his torso like a second skin. The shirt had been left open at the collar as usual, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off a delicious pair of lean forearms. The shadow of his Dark Mark, although faded now, was still visible on his left arm and Harry found he couldn’t care less about it being there. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same about the rest of it; the man was even more stunning than he remembered from last night.

“ _J’aime la langue Francais_ ,” Malfoy said in his perfectly fluent French that made Harry suddenly go weak in the knees. “ _C’est la plus belle langue du monde, à mon opinion_. I just can’t stand hearing it being butchered like that by any of you British cretins.”

Surprised by a sudden bout of courage, Harry took a few steps closer, locking eyes with the man from under long dark eyelashes. “Then maybe you should teach me,” he murmured, miraculously managing to pitch his voice low and husky despite the nerves strung taught in his throat. “I love all things French.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said, letting the corner of his mouth curve into a playful smile. “And I bet you’d be an excellent teacher, Malfoy.”

“I bet you’d be an ineducable student, Potter.”

The twinkle of delight in those grey eyes made Harry wonder if they were even talking about languages anymore. Not that it mattered.

“You won’t know unless you try,” Harry smirked, feeling his heart beat faster as he caught a glimpse of white teeth biting down on Malfoy’s lower lip. “And given the right incentives…,” he said, pausing to let his gaze travel the length of Malfoy’s body and praising his own boldness as he noticed Malfoy’s breath hitch, “…I can be very attentive.”

Malfoy quirked a blond eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, ever the cocky tease. “The right incentives, eh? And what would those be?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Harry shrugged and took another step closer, landing himself only an arms-length distance in front of Malfoy. Holding Malfoy’s gaze, he smoothly let his hands slip into his own trouser pockets in what he hoped looked like a casually relaxed manner and not what it actually was (a desperate action to adjust his attire to cover up the strained situation in his pants). “What do you have to offer?”

Harry felt a strange mix of triumph and disappointment as he watched Malfoy finally break their eye contact, tearing his gaze away from their staring contest to let it flit aimlessly around the room. Then everything else faded away as Malfoy’s cheeks blushed an intriguing shade of pink.

“Well, I…”

Malfoy’s voice came out ragged and Harry stubbornly reigned in the temptation to take that final step and pin the blond against the counter. Honestly, he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to resist, but this sparring between them was just too much fun to not keep up for as long as possible.

Harry was powerless to stop his eyes from being drawn to the movement of Malfoy’s Adam’s apple as the man cleared his throat.

“…How about twenty-three freshly brewed phials of Lazy Bug antidote?”

Harry blinked. _What the fuck was he—?_

_Oh. Yeah, that’s right. The potion. But—?_

Harry frowned. “ _Lazy Bug?_ ”

“Yes,” Malfoy smirked, his equilibrium already restored and his confidence back and kicking, “I figured that’d be a more appropriate name for the condition, don’t you think?”

“Why? What’s wrong with Slowmongitis? I thought it a pretty inventive name.” He had been rather pleased with himself when he’d come up with it.

“Well, first of all,” Malfoy drawled, raising one lone slender finger in the space between them, “it’s not an inflammation, so the -itis suffix doesn’t apply.” Harry made to counter him, but Malfoy went on, raising another finger next to the first. “Second of all,” he said, while Harry did his best not to focus on those perfectly manicured fingers and how much he wanted to wrap his lips around them. _I wonder how he’d react if I did?_ Harry mused, itching to dare to find out. “Given the circumstances, Lazy Bug is a strike of brilliance in comparison, a true testament to the ingeniousness of its creator.”

Harry opened his mouth for the second time, the self-satisfaction showing on Malfoy’s face surely too smug to be left without comment, but the adding of a third finger left him speechless as his filthy mind started picturing those fingers devoured by something even more titillating than his mouth. _Fuck!_ Swallowing, Harry clenched his jaw and begged his heart to slow down.

“Third of all, the name reminds me of ladybugs, and—”

“Ladybugs?” Harry frowned. “Ah, you mean ladybirds?”

Malfoy’s pale brows shot heavenwards in utter disbelief. “Do they look like birds to you, Potter?”

“Er… no, but…”

“So, ladybugs — those little fellows are my absolute favourite insects and always make me smile so…”

“What?” Harry breathed, confused, at long last regaining his ability to form words.

 _Ladybirds? Malfoy liking ladybirds?_ No, this was all too surreal… _There must be a candid camera hidden somewhere because Malfoy cannot just stand there talking about ladybirds as if—_

“Why, don’t you like ladybugs, Potter?” Malfoy frowned and — _oh, good Godric_ — pouted. And fuck it if that full lower lip wasn’t the final straw…

It wasn’t even a conscious decision; it just happened, like so many other things in Harry’s life happened when his reckless Gryffindor rashness took over the reins. One moment Malfoy was standing there, all feigned concern and raised fingers and eyes sparkling with glee, and the next his hand was trapped between their chests as Harry pounced and captured that enticing lip in a scorching kiss.

He felt Malfoy’s shoulders stiffen under his hands, felt the panic rising for a never-ending fleeting second before Malfoy unfroze and reacted to the unexpected assault. Malfoy’s hand started moving against their chests, breaking free from its confinement, and Harry was still pretty sure Malfoy was about to push him away, could even visualise his outraged expression in quite detail, when he suddenly felt strong hands pressing in hot and eager at the small of his back.

And then Malfoy finally decided to return the kiss, sending Harry reeling as he pressed forward with just as much desperation as Harry himself felt. Nibbling, and sucking, and biting, and licking, and — _ngh_ — suddenly Harry’s fingers were tangled in silky-soft hair and the groan broke from his throat before he had any chance at holding it back. One hand travelled along the curve of his spine, another ventured over the waistband of his trousers. There was not enough oxygen in his lungs but no time to break away to do anything about it. Harry gasped, though, as he felt Malfoy’s hand grab a firm hold of his buttock, thrusting, grinding, finding glorious friction from another erection pressed up against his.

The tip of a tongue slid over Harry’s kiss-swollen lip, seeking its match and plunging hungrily as Harry invited him in. Malfoy tasted sweet and bitter, like coffee and sugar quills, and while their first kiss had been soft and tender and gentle, this kiss was anything but. It was fire and desire and passion, and Harry tilted his head to be able to deepen it even more. It was all too much and not enough and _what-the-hell-is-happening_ and _please-let-this-moment-last-forever_.

A loud bang from the other end of the room ripped them from their bubble of heat and want, causing them to draw apart and search out the other’s gaze. Malfoy’s eyes were dark and glassy, dazed and widened, his cheeks were flushed and his parted lips red and swollen. Their chests rose and fell in sync with their heavy pants, their hot breaths mingling in the space between them. Malfoy looked just as discombobulated as Harry felt, surprise and awe and desire swirling in his eyes. His hair was a total mess, adding to his debauched appearance and making him look hotter than Harry had even dared imagine anyone — ever.

“Fuck,” Malfoy breathed. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled sheepishly, lowering his forehead to rest on Malfoy’s shoulder. There was a delirious feeling of exhilaration bubbling up within him, fizzling through his veins and tickling his core and lungs and heart and nerves until it eventually burst out of him in the form of a helpless giggle.

“Yeah?” Malfoy murmured next to his ear, leaving a trail of barely-there kisses down Harry’s neck before Harry felt the weight of Malfoy’s forehead on his own shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, mind still reeling.

“I take it you don’t have anything against ladybugs, then?” Draco said softly, eliciting another fit of pathetic giggles from Harry.

“You’re insufferable,” Harry smiled, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he straightened up. Malfoy lifted his head, too, meeting Harry’s smile with a pleased grin. He looked so happy, happier than Harry had ever seen him, and the sight made Harry’s heart swell with joy. He trailed feather-light fingertips over the closely cropped hairs on Malfoy’s neck. It was so soft, Malfoy’s hair, so fucking perfect Harry never wanted to stop touching it.

He was just about to lean in for another, more composed kiss when there was another bang startling them both.

“What the fuck is happening?” Harry exclaimed, finally registering the sound for what it was.

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy chuckled, “I told you about the Snap tournament. It’s three o’clock, Friday Finals time.”

“You were actually serious?” Harry said as another bang sounded from the other end of the lab.

“Serious as your godfather,” Malfoy winked, releasing his hold on Harry’s waist to smooth out his shirt and Healer robes. His hands lingered, palms flat over Harry’s chest as he cleared his throat. “Well, this was nice…” he said.

 _Just ‘nice’?_ Harry’s eyebrows rose inquiringly at Malfoy’s word choice.

“…and if it weren’t for the morons on the other side of that wall…” — _oh, right_ — “…and the Lazy Buggers upstairs waiting for their antidote…”

 _Fuck_ , Harry had totally forgotten about his patients there for a minute.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Harry said, tearing his eyes from the glittering grey to — _bang!_ — scan the working area for the promised phials. They weren’t hard to find since the counter was nearly spotless, and Harry had already laid eyes on them as Malfoy reached out to pull the phials rack closer.

“One phial each, every last drop,” Malfoy instructed, suddenly all business. “You should see the first signs of recovery within thirty minutes, and if everything goes well, they’ll be ready to return home within a couple of hours.”

“Okay.”

“The infection has caused an unnatural amount of haemoglobin in their blood, and the slow heart rate you’ve detected is the body’s spontaneous defence mechanism to avoid excess oxygen levels, mainly not to damage the brain tissue. You know, even if they can’t move or talk at regular speed, their minds still work as quick and efficient as usual. Can you imagine the frustration they feel at not being able to do or say what they want to?”

“Oh, shit,” Harry said, suddenly very eager to get back up there and — _bang!_ — administer the curing potion to all the residents in his slow-mo ward. To think they’d all be cured and gone before the end of the day— Malfoy truly was a miracle worker.

“Quite,” Malfoy agreed.

Harry made to pick up the phial rack but before he could reach it Malfoy’s hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Listen, this potion will lower their haemoglobin levels back to normal. The process can be quite a rush and don’t be alarmed if they appear a little dazed or bemused by the end of it. If so, a quarter-dose of Pepper-Up should do the trick.”

“Okay. Pepper-Up. Got it,” Harry said, his eyes fixed on Malfoy’s pale fingers covering his tanned skin. Malfoy released his hold, pushing the rack towards Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry grabbed it and pulled it close to his body, hugging it safely in his arms. It felt surreal, just as this whole week had; holding the cure for his patients after all this time. “Thank you,” he whispered, tearing his eyes away from the miracle in his hands to look up at the miracle before him. “Thank you so much.”

“Glad I could help,” Malfoy said. A shadow of something resembling melancholy flitted over his features and Harry couldn’t for the life of him figure out what that was all about. “Please let me know how it goes, alright?”

“Sure,” Harry said, smiling encouragingly. “I’ll come down as soon as I know everyone’s alright. Wait for me?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said, offering a faint smile, “now get up there and heal those patients.”

“ _Oui, Monsieur_ ,” Harry grinned, “will do!”

He resisted the urge to lean in for another kiss, figuring he shouldn’t risk the safety of the phials he was holding. Instead, he turned on his — _bang!_ — heel and left the lab as quickly as possible without gaining any attention from the — _bang!_ — Snapping labbers.

* * *

When he came back some three hours later, the lab was quiet and left in darkness, save for a beam of light spilling out over the floor from behind Malfoy’s partition wall. Harry cautiously manoeuvred through the shadows, careful not to walk into any worktables, stools, or lab equipment on his way towards where he hoped Malfoy was still waiting for him.

The brown leather overnight bag, standing next to a shiny metallic potions toolbox, was the first thing that caught Harry’s eye as he came closer. A light summer travelling cloak laid draped over a nearby stool and his heart sank at the sight of it. He’d hoped for Malfoy to at least stay in town over the weekend, but apparently, the man was already checked out of his hotel and about ready to leave.

Malfoy’s silver-grey eyes met his as soon as Harry passed the partition wall. He was seated on a stool with his hands clasped neatly in front of him on top of a closed notebook. A beautiful dark green quill laid next to the book, perfectly perpendicular to it. As if Malfoy had taken extra care of how to best place it. As if he’d been fiddling nervously with it before promptly telling himself to stop.

“Everyone’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, walking over to drop down on the stool across from him. “Sorry it took so long, but I wanted to make sure everyone made it home alright. Lori’s mum wasn’t able to come pick her up until just now, and—”

“No need to apologise,” Malfoy said, cutting off his rambling. “I promised I’d wait, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And have you heard anything from the Ministry? Did they find the sloth?”

“Yeah…”

Harry frowned, feeling slightly discombobulated. After days of surreal flirting — because it had indeed been flirting, Harry could admit to it now — Malfoy was suddenly all business, and Harry had no idea why. He also had no idea why it stung so badly. He swallowed down his unease before continuing.

“Apparently, there was a tenant living above Flourish and Blotts who’d brought one in illegally after a vacation trip. Thought he’d be able to keep it as a pet.”

Malfoy shook his head in disbelief, making the blond locks sway in front of his forehead. “And where is it now?”

“It’s been taken to the London Zoo for the time being. The Muggles will sort it out from there.”

“Good,” Malfoy said. “So, that’s it, then.” He cleared his throat as he straightened his already flawless posture and grabbed his book and quill.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry shrugged, feeling a burst of panic spread through his chest as Malfoy got up from his stool and made for his luggage. “Wait… You’re not just gonna…?”

“What? Leave?” Malfoy said, shooting Harry a quick glance before squatting elegantly in front of his bag to put his things away. “Yes, Potter, I have a Portkey that activates in an hour and…”

“Don’t,” Harry blurted, all at once on his feet without any memory of actually standing up.

Malfoy’s head snapped up to look at him, his grey eyes widened and muddled in confusion. “What are you—”

“Don’t leave,” Harry said, walking around the table to get closer to the man he was suddenly certain he didn’t want out of his life ever again. “Stay, if only for—”

“You want me to…?” Malfoy faltered, incredulous, and rose unsteadily from his low position on the floor. “But I—”

“Yes, Malfoy…” Harry looked the gorgeous man straight in the eye as he took one final step towards him, reaching out to place a trembling hand over Malfoy’s heart. He could feel it thumping beneath his palm, even through several layers of fabric, and he took comfort in its steady rhythm, in the quickened pulse that told him he wasn’t alone in wanting this. “…I want you to stay.”

This time Malfoy was the one who pounced, Harry’s only warning was the grey eyes darkening with desire before he was pushed back against the big worktable and smothered by Malfoy’s hungry mouth. Not that Harry minded; quite the contrary, really. After years of being expected to always take charge — as being the hero seemingly implied — being kissed like this, with no hesitation or awed submission, was more exhilarating than he’d ever imagined.

Not that he was passive, now. No, Harry indeed gave as good as he got. How could he not, when his entire being was gagging for it? Gagging to hear those exquisite moans, to taste those delicious lips, to touch that perfect body he’d been admiring for longer than he was willing to admit.

Malfoy’s hands were in his hair, his fingers carding through Harry’s unruly locks as the man feasted on Harry’s lips. Harry let his hands roam over Malfoy’s broad back, down his spine and further down over the waistband of his tight Muggle jeans. As he gripped that glorious arse and thrust up against him, the sensation of Malfoy’s rock-hard erection grinding against his own was enough to make him dizzy with want.

Apparently, Malfoy felt the same, for he broke their kiss to let out a breathless whimper, the sound of it sending Harry into overdrive. Growling, he pushed away from the worktable and steered Malfoy up against the wall behind him. Malfoy huffed from the impact as his back hit the wall, tilting his head back and clutching Harry’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.

With Malfoy’s mouth suddenly out of reach, Harry took the opportunity to savour his bared neck instead, licking, kissing, sucking, and nibbling his way down Malfoy’s smooth skin, high on the fresh lemony scent of his subtle cologne.

“Fu-uck,” Malfoy groaned as Harry’s lips latched on to his pulse point and sucked greedily. Harry was fairly sure his ministrations would leave a distinct mark on Malfoy’s pale skin but he couldn’t bother to feel concerned about it. Rather, the thought of marking Malfoy like that, of claiming him as _his_ , just made it all the more appealing.

Somewhere along the line, Malfoy had started making the most amazing little noises; the kind he’d never admit to making, not even ten years later. Harry heard them, though, revelled in them as they mingled with Harry’s breathy moans in the quiet laboratory. Malfoy’s grip in Harry’s hair tightened, guiding his head up to devour Harry’s mouth in another fierce kiss.

And then Malfoy’s hands were moving again, hot and eager on Harry’s back, gliding over the thin cotton of Harry’s t-shirt. Harry shuddered as one of them found its way under the hem, shuddered at the feeling of Malfoy’s hand pressed to his bare skin, of his capable fingers splayed out over the small of his back, holding Harry as close as humanly possible as he thrust his crotch up against Harry’s hip,

“I need…” Malfoy panted between wet bruising kisses, “Oh fuck… I need…”

“Yes… Godric, yes…”

Harry didn’t have to hear Malfoy voicing his thoughts, he already knew what Malfoy needed. He needed it too, so very badly — craved it with all his being.

It got a little crowded between them then, when two pairs of hands were suddenly fumbling for buttons and flies and the straining-leaking-aching treasures hidden underneath rough denim and tight boxers.

Harry moaned desperately when Malfoy was finally able to get his hands on Harry’s throbbing cock, the pleased smirk on Malfoy’s lips quickly wiped away by a gasp as Harry’s fingers managed to sneak inside damp silk and curl around his in return.

Without ever breaking their hungry kisses, trousers and pants were shoved down mid-thigh, leaving room for exploring hands and touch-starved crotches. It was messy and awkward, pulsing heads leaking pre-come and hands bumping against each other — until Malfoy resolutely swatted Harry’s hand away and — _nggh_ — wrapped his long slender fingers around them both.

“Fu-uck…”

Harry groaned at the sensation of Malfoy pressed hot and hard and slick against him within the tight heat of Malfoy’s fist. There was no chance he’d be able to last much longer. He was so close already, had been for quite some time, and it was probably a good thing Malfoy’s other arm found its way back around Harry’s waist or he might’ve crumpled into a heap on the floor as his knees grew weak.

Bracing himself with both hands against the wall, Harry thrust, moaned, panted, kissed; chased that golden Snitch of release, for once not caring who out of the two of them would get to it first.

Malfoy did; tensing, trembling, and groaning as he spilt his seed over them both. Harry didn’t need much more than that, didn’t need more than the riveting sight of Malfoy coming undone, the throaty sound of his pleasure, the brilliant feel of his hot come spurting over their joined erections…

Harry came, harder than he’d ever come before; quivering, whimpering, collapsing against the man who up until just a few days ago had been his adversary, his rival, his antagonist; the man who during the last half-week had become something else entirely.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sighed, his forehead once again resting on the solid shoulder of Malfoy’s slim frame. “Fuck…”

He could feel the hot puff of air ghosting over his neck as Malfoy gave a slight snort.

“Maybe some other time,” the man quipped, the implication of his words sending a white-hot thrill of excitement through Harry’s spent body.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, “I… yeah.”

Eventually, wits were gathered, breaths were caught, cleaning spells were cast, and clothes were righted. Malfoy still looked more dishevelled than Harry’d ever seen him, with his rumpled hair, his kiss-swollen lips, and the rosy blotches of stubble burn adorning his pale skin. Harry had no expectations of looking any more composed himself but found he didn’t mind it one bit — especially not as he noticed the dark shadow of a fresh love bite peek out from the unbuttoned collar of Malfoy’s shirt.

Malfoy’s gaze darted back and forth between Harry and the spot where his bags waited for him, torn. As if he contemplated— As if he was trying to make up his mind about—

“Don’t leave,” Harry blurted, not even caring how needy he came across.

Malfoy looked at him, a silent plea in his stormy grey eyes and anguish written all over his face.

“I-I have to, I—”

“Will you come back?”

* * *

Malfoy left, taking a part of Harry with him as the Portkey whisked him away, rendering Harry’s world strangely empty. As the true Slytherin he was, Malfoy had elegantly slithered out of making any promises, and Harry started to fear he’d never see the man again.

The following days went by in a haze of quarrelling emotions. Confusion and disbelief, trying to grasp what had really happened. (If it even had; maybe it _had_ all been a weird dream, after all?) Hope, insisting on pointing out all the tiny signals Harry tried to convince himself he hadn’t been imagining. Resignation, telling him it was never meant to be anyway. (Let’s face it, we’re talking about Malfoy here, Harry’s life-long adversary.) Longing, urging him to seek out the man and go get him. Loss, reminding him of just how meagre his existence had been before Malfoy had waltzed back into his life and set the world alight.

For years, Harry had contented himself with an uncomplicated life, revolving around his work and, when time allowed, his friends. For years it had been enough, all he’d ever aspired to, and he’d never had any reason to complain, at least not enough to bother doing anything about it.

Now, though, in only a few days, Malfoy had managed to turn his whole world upside down. In a few days, the man had managed to make Harry feel like something was lacking, that his life would never feel right again until that missing piece was found and brought back home.

That weekend — when he’d reluctantly agreed to dinner at Ron and Hermione’s, even though he really wasn’t in the mood for it, but dreaded spending another evening alone with his thoughts even more — it only took Hermione a few minutes to notice something was wrong with her friend. He told them, of course, not even contemplating the alternative, fearing aghast shock but surprisingly ending up with one knowing smirk and one supportive slap on the back.

Malfoy had been gone ten days, fifteen hours, and twenty-four minutes when the memo landed on Harry’s desk, a summons to report to Chief Healer Hinmity’s office _at his earliest convenience_.

Harry arse had barely touched the seat of Hinmity’s posh visitor’s chair before the man fired off his first question, sending Harry’s heart leaping and getting stuck in his throat.

“How well do you know this French Potioneer, Mr Malfoy?”

The coughing fit lasted long enough for the Chief Healer to conjure a glass of water for his startled visitor.

“Thank you,” Harry croaked, breathless, once he’d regained his equilibrium. “Sorry… Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Hinmity said, “what’s your opinion of him?”

“Er…”

How was he supposed to answer that? Harry figured words like _gorgeous_ , _sexy_ , or _irresistible_ weren’t quite what the hospital’s executive manager was after. _Charismatic? Funny? Intelligent?_

“Why do you ask, sir?”

“I’d like to know if he can be trusted,” Hinmity said matter-of-factly. “He’s said to bear the Dark Mark, I don’t know if—”

“You can trust him,” Harry said with conviction, cutting his superior off before having to listen to any prejudiced drivel coming out of his mouth. “I’ve known him since we were both eleven, and whoever he once was, the man he is today is nothing like ones who followed Tom Riddle during the wars.”

He couldn’t be sure about this statement, of course, but his gut feeling told him he was right. There was no way the man he’d seen interacting so lovingly with his patients a week ago still harboured any of the twisted beliefs and values he’d been indoctrinated with since birth.

“Good,” the Chief Healer said with a satisfied smile. “Now, since you seem to know him so well, Healer Potter, I might be in need of your help…”

Twenty minutes later, Harry was back in his own office with his mind spinning and his heart beating bruises on the inside of his rib cage. He’d just been served the perfect excuse on a shining silver platter, admittedly more than he could have ever wished for, and suddenly it all felt too much — much too much to handle…

“‘Mione, please,” he begged from his kneeling position in front of the Floo, “My rock, my saviour, my boat — I need you…”

Hermione came. Of course, she did; because she’s amazing like that. She talked him through it, asked all the hard and necessary questions, and kept him grounded whenever his mind attempted to venture too far into the scary unknown.

Her contacts at the Ministry were reluctant to help at first, despite being asked by the Minister’s secretary herself. But once they realised who was really in need of their aid, not even a faded Dark Mark could keep them from digging up the requested information — sometimes being the hero actually had its advantages.

He turned down the offer of a custom-made Portkey, opting instead for a standard-issue trip to the Portkey station closest to his destination; Carcassonne. No matter how eager he was to get there, he’d need some time to compose himself before… And what better way to collect his thoughts than taking a stroll through the sunny countryside of Languedoc?

The quaint, old cottage lay secluded at the edge of a friendly-looking forest overlooking a spectacular lavender field. The heady scent from the plentiful flowers was almost overwhelming in its intensity, but what really took Harry’s breath away was the sight of the purple sea stretching endlessly over the hills. That, and the blond vision in the middle of it all, standing with his back turned to the gravelled country lane that had led Harry here.

Two weeks had passed since Harry last laid eyes on the man. Two weeks that, at this moment, felt like both an eternity and no time at all. He looked almost ethereal where he stood, the sunlight catching in his platinum-blond hair and highlighting his pale skin and light-coloured clothing against the more subdued shades of the surrounding landscape. He was dressed in another one of those sheer billowing shirts today — dove-grey this time, the same colour as his eyes — paired with loose white linen trousers that hugged his perfect arse in all the right places.

Harry swallowed. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for this, but he was a Gryffindor, damn it, he could do this. Plus, he’d be a fool to turn back now, not when he’d already come this far.

He set himself in motion, steering towards the blond down the field between two rows of blossoming lavender shrubs. Everywhere he looked, butterflies were swarming among the flowers around him, their multitude, albeit wondrous, nowhere near enough to rival the ones fluttering in his stomach. Ignoring them and his rapidly beating heart, Harry schooled his voice low and smooth as he addressed the sun-kissed nape of Draco Malfoy’s neck.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

When Malfoy had first turned up in Harry’s doorway after a decade under the radar, he’d managed to render Harry speechless with his unexpected appearance. Now, Harry couldn’t help feeling a little smug for being able to return the favour, smirking at the look of thunderstruck surprise in Malfoy’s features on finding Harry standing there, in the middle of a French lavender field with nothing but the clothes on his back and hope in his heart.

“P-Potter? What are you…”

“Had some spare time,” Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Figured I’d pop by for a visit, see how my old schoolmate was doing.”

“You— You figu—?” Malfoy looked utterly adorable when confused and fumbling for his words, Harry decided. “How did you—?”

“Why, aren’t you pleased to see me?” Harry said, echoing Malfoy’s words from that first day in his office and trying his best to also imitate that aghast diva-esque expression Malfoy had used to go with them.

It had the desired effect, and Harry grinned widely as Malfoy’s defences broke down and he burst into a liberating bout of laughter. _Oh, dear Merlin, I’m so gone_ , Harry thought, feeling his heart soar at the sound of Malfoy’s open mirth.

“Of course I’m pleased to see you, you insufferable prat,” Malfoy said with an amazed shake of his head as he walked up to his unannounced visitor.

“Well, that’s fortunate,” Harry said, drowning in those warm silver-grey eyes. “I would’ve hated to come all the way over here unwanted.”

He knew if he touched Malfoy now, he’d never want to let go ever again. He was itching to, though, itching to take him in his arms and snog him senseless, but he willed himself to stay cool, savouring the building tension between them as if it were the most exquisite thing. And maybe it was. They stood only a wands-length apart now, Malfoy’s extra height allowing him to look down at Harry, his eyes dark with desire and his gaze intense enough to turn Harry’s brain to mush.

“Trust me, Potter,” Malfoy murmured, his deep baritone sending a thrill down Harry’s spine. “You’ll never be unwanted here.”

Harry forgot how to breathe there for a moment as Malfoy’s words sank in, stunning him with their open honesty so unexpected from the usually so guarded Slytherin. When Harry’s mind eventually caught up, spinning as it grasped for a witty reply, he was pretty sure the sun wasn’t to blame for his burning cheeks.

“Good to know,” he eventually managed. His voice came out rough and trembling, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “However, I know somewhere else where _you’re_ wanted.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose towards his tousled fringe, his eyes following Harry curiously as he produced a sealed envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. This was the official reason he’d come here, after all, might as well get it over with.

Malfoy studied St Mungo’s seal with a frown, glancing over at Harry quizzically.

“Just open it,” Harry urged with a smile.

Malfoy did what he was told, breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment, skimming the Chief Healer’s letter with growing confusion. Harry already knew what it contained; a heartfelt thank-you for his help in solving the Lazy Bug conundrum — and a job offer.

“What is this?” Malfoy breathed after reading through the letter several times, looking up to search Harry’s features with bewildered eyes. “I don’t…”

“Apparently, something in your case report alerted the board to the negligence and misconduct of the lab’s management. Senior Healer Sourpuss has already been offered a generous pension and allegedly the board was unanimous in their first choice for her replacement.”

“They want _me_ to…?”

“Yeah, they do,” Harry said with an encouraging smile.

“But I–“

“Shh…” At the sight of the conflicting emotions swirling in those stormy grey eyes, Harry wasn’t able to hold himself back anymore. He reached out to cup Malfoy’s warm, clean-shaven jaw with the palm of his hand and gently brushed his thumb over Malfoy’s high cheekbone. “Draco,” he said softly, watching Malfoy’s eyes widen at the sound of his first name from Harry’s lips, “come home with me?”

Malfoy’s answer was a non-verbal one, a bruising kiss that nearly toppled Harry over hadn’t it been for Malfoy’s strong arms enfolding him in a tight embrace. It lasted long enough to leave them both dazed and breathless, and yet they both whimpered with need once they were finally forced to come up for air.

“Sweet Salazar,” Malfoy said between pants, carding his marvellous fingers through Harry’s hair. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Harry smiled wryly. “Better believe it, Malfoy, you’ll never get rid of me ever again.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Draco ruined those light-coloured linen trousers that day, kneeling before Harry in the dry warm soil, taking him deep down his throat right there in the middle of the lavender field.

One year later, when they found themselves back in the same spot, Harry was the one sinking to the ground, presenting Draco’s platinum engagement ring from a red and black velveteen box shaped like a ladybug.

* * *

_Now_

* * *

“Rem— _mmm_ —mind me again,” Draco says around an involuntary moan, “wh-why do we l-live in— _nggh —_ London?”

Harry moans, the vibrations sending Draco’s body trembling under his lips. He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to stop what he’s currently doing. Between kids and work and life et cetera, there’s usually no time or energy left for indulgences like this. Usually, a quick prepping spell does the trick, even if Harry knows no spell on earth even comes close to the pleasure of opening up his lover with his mouth, his tongue, and his fingers. _We really should make time to do this more often_ , Harry decides as another breathless whimper escapes Draco’s kiss-swollen lips.

They debated their living arrangements for hours on end that first year, finally landing on London as their home base for practical reasons. It’s not something they’ve ever regretted since then, especially not after the kids came along, but there are times, especially this time of the year, when they both long for their little French cottage and the scent of blossoming lavender.

“We’ll be there soon, my love,” Harry murmurs against Draco’s heated skin, replacing his tongue with his lube-slicked fingers. “Just a few more days now.”

He could easily stay in bed and do this all day, there’s nothing quite like being able to reduce his husband to a writhing incoherent mess. Harry watches his fingers working, stretching Draco’s tight entrance open to the sound of squelching slippery lube and desperate throaty moans.

“Harry, _please_ …”

 _Fuck_.

If there’s anything able to make Harry lose control, it’s this — hearing Draco beg. The first time he heard it, it was almost enough for Harry to come right there on the spot, just that one word; _please_. It’s not something that happens every day, far from it, but it does happen. And it doesn’t seem to matter how many times Harry’s heard it through the years, it’s become somewhat Pavlovian since then. Just like the heady scent of lavender.

He flicks a glance at Draco’s face and groans at the sight of his closed eyes, his parted lips, and the rosy flush that colours his usually so pale cheeks and neck and chest. Bending down, licking a shiny drop of pre-come from Draco’s slit, Harry reluctantly withdraws his fingers and crawls forward on his hands and knees to cover Draco’s mouth with his own.

“Please…” Draco breathes again, nibbling on Harry’s lips. “I need you…”

“You have me, love, I’m right here,” Harry murmurs with a smile.

He knows full well that’s not what his husband is asking for, he just loves to tease. They both do, just like they’ve always done, and Harry figures that’s something that will never change between them. On the contrary, if Harry’s not mistaken, it may even be what keeps their spark forever flaring and thriving. The push and pull, the back and forth, the give and take; the two of them have always lived in some strange synchronicity, even back in the day when they were still bitter foes during their Hogwarts years.

Draco swallows the bait without blinking, too wound up to resist.

“Fuck you,” he growls, impatiently thrusting up into thin air in search for friction.

“Yeah?” Harry grins and lowers his hips to let the head of his cock glide over Draco’s wet and waiting hole. “And here I thought you wanted it the other way around.”

“Fuck, Harry…” Draco whines, “Won’t you just, _please_ …”

Harry shudders and shuts his eyes to revel in the spike of arousal rushing through him. Draco knows exactly what that word does to him, the bloody Slytherin, knows exactly how to use it to his best advantage.

“What do you want?” Harry whispers next to Draco’s ear. “Tell me what you need, love.”

“I need y— o _hh…_ ” Draco’s breath hitches as Harry takes his earlobe between his teeth and gives it a firm suck. “…need y-you inside me.”

Of course, Harry complies. How could he not? He sinks into his lover as slowly as humanly possible, savouring every second, every inch, every shallow gasp and every deep husky groan. It took them years before they were able to make love like this; gentle, unhurried, tender. Then their kids arrived, hogging all their time and energy, reducing their love life to affectionate kisses and perfunctory fucks.

“I’ve missed this,” Harry mumbles as he starts to move, slow, deep, and assured inside the love of his life. Draco cants his hips and moves with him, meeting Harry thrust by exquisite thrust. His hands are hot on Harry’s back, his eyes dark and intense as they lock with Harry’s.

“Me too,” he says softly, moving one hand to card his fingers through Harry’s unruly hair. He brushes a stray lock from Harry’s forehead and tucks it behind his ear. “I’ve missed us.”

Harry’s heart swells and he leans down to place another kiss on Draco’s mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, close enough for his lips to brush against Draco’s as he speaks. “I love you so much.”

Draco’s eyes close as his head falls back on the rumpled pillow, a ragged moan escaping him as he clenches around Harry. His unspoken response hangs heavily in the air between them, echoes in the peaceful silence surrounding them. _I love you too_.

Afterwards, Harry lies pressed up against his husband’s side, one leg draped over Draco’s thigh and his head resting on his chest. Feather-light fingertips move aimlessly up and down the length of Harry’s spine, the slender fingers of Draco’s other hand playing with Harry’s, entwining and untwining over Draco’s heart. Draco’s platinum ring glints in the beam of sunlight sneaking in through their slightly ajar window, the sight of it making Harry’s heart sing along with the blackbird still warbling in the birches outside.

Draco stirs, attempting to slide out from under Harry’s languorous body.

“Don’t leave,” Harry says, reaching out for his dragon with a playful pout and his best puppy dog eyes. Draco smiles and shakes his head fondly at his husband’s antics.

“I have to,” he says, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge. “I have to go pee, Harry, and I’m in desperate need of coffee—”

“Will you come back?”

Draco turns around, affection warm and soft in his grey eyes as he leans down to gently press his lips to Harry’s forehead.

“Always.”

— ¤ — ¤ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AnnaWolfArt is truly amazing. She also made [this gorgeous piece of fanart for me](https://drarrelie.tumblr.com/post/616408507355398144), to go with the 'lavender field' scene near the end of this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> So, have you spotted the real sinners in this fic? The ones who are actually guilty of exercising sloth, _the absence of interest or habitual disinclination to exertion_ (apart from the obvious present-day couple)? Well, it’s not the slow-mos — that’s for sure — and neither the poor sloth nor its sloth moths.
> 
> The hospital board, on the other hand, who doesn’t take the situation seriously until the Chief Healer is personally affected; the Ward Managers, who all wants to avoid any and all responsibility; the Maintenance Department, who had implemented enough procedures to not have to do much work at all; the lab staff, who rather play card games than do their job — and even Harry, both in the way he is reluctant to accept a position where he'd be able to influence the misdeeds going on at the hospital, and also in how he chooses not to pursue any romantic relationships because he just can’t be bothered. Until Draco appears, that is.
> 
> I love and cherish any and all feedback you’re willing to give me — kudos, comments and recommendations are my primary life sources. For more interaction, please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/drarrelie)
> 
> This work is part of the [Seven Shades of Sin anthology](/series/1677472), a series of Drarry fics exploring the seven deadly sins.
> 
> There’s also a playlist created for this anthology that can be found [here on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2emrdGIthVVBwflHmUO4Yo?si=_dQ6V1ITQH-abE_5ChF3lw); seven songs for each of the seven fics included in the collection.


End file.
